The Weaving of Yjarrn - იარნის გამოქსმვა
by Levi Buchanan
Summary: Yjarrn is floating through life until a scrape with the Riften city guard changes everything.
1. Part 1: The Weight of Gold

**The Weaving of Yjarrn**

 **Part 1:** _The Weight of Gold_

This is it, Yjarrn thought to himself as he scampered through the streets of Riften. This was one joke that just might have been stepping too far over the line. How on earth do you explain to Helga that her tenants might like her statue of Dibella more with a bit of make-up? Well, it was certainly not by saying she was worth looking at now. Yjarrn had no idea she would take the comment so personally, nor that she would call the guards on him for trespassing when he refused to apologize for "stating an obvious fact."

Yjarrn was not exactly sure where he was going. The wooden structures of the city all looked pretty much the same, and the lack of light reflecting off Masser and Secunda did not help. He crossed the bridge and tore down the alley behind the Bee and Barb, but when he neared the marketplace, a guard stepped out into his path.

"Well, now, thought you could get away, huh?" the guard asked. "You're going to be spending some time in the dungeon, rat. We have enough trouble with crime here to put up with vandals."

Yjarrn had never actually done anything to the statue of Dibella, though to be honest, he still thought it lacked a bit of flare for occupying such a prominent place in the Bunkhouse. When had suggesting vandalism become synonymous with committing it? Ever since the Imperials had taken back Riften, the city guards had become exceedingly difficult, feeling they needed to prove they still had a reason to exist. Yjarrn did not begrudge them this. No one in the city wanted Maven to think they were no longer useful, but for some reason, rather than strong-arming the real criminals, the guards started coming down a lot harder on the small transgressions or finding infractions where there were none. Just the other day his friend, Wujeeta, got fired from the fishery because one of the guards "found" skooma on her. What a load of skeever droppings!

The guard took a threatening step forward and drew his weapon. "Are you coming quietly?" he asked. "Or are you going to make trouble?"

"Well," Yjarrn stammered nervously. "I'm not really guilty of anything."

"Oh, really?" the guard asked, obviously mocking him, but he lowered his blade slightly. "Then why are you running?"

"It seemed the smart thing to do when Helga pulled an ax out from behind her counter," Reeves said, still eying the guard's sword. "I'm a little afraid of blades."

The guard smiled wickedly and raised the tip of his sword back up. He also heard the footsteps of at least two other guards coming up behind him, and his heart sank. It seemed as though once again he had found the exact wrong thing to say in the situation. It looked like he would be spending some time in the dungeon. He raised his hands in surrender, but suddenly the guard lunged forward, the tip of his sword aimed squarely at his chest. Looking back on it later, Yjarrn had to admit it was a rather girlish scream, high-pitched and far louder than it should have been, but it worked out in his favor. He managed to swerve out of the path of the weapon just in time, and the guards behind him collapsed on the stone roaring with laughter. The guard in front of him gave him the strangest look, but Yjarrn did not wait for the man to regain himself. He bolted, leaping over the howling guards who were now effectively disarmed and nearly worthless, and squeezed himself into the small gap between the Pawned Prawn and the Black-Briar Meadery.

Sucking in his gut, Yjarrn was just able to get between the buildings, and he quickly forced himself several feet through the small crevice. He twisted his head up and around to see the guard who had tried to stab him sticking his sword into the open space behind him. Yjarrn felt throwing up, though he did his best to hold it in thinking about how much of a mess it would make in such a confined space. The guard was yelling and cursing, but Yjarrn barely heard him. He squeezed out the back and found himself on a small section of stone wall overlooking the dock with the rook of the Meadery in front of him. With one last look at the floundering guards behind him, he hopped onto the roof. He had intended to run down to the end and find a way off the front side of the building, but the wooden slats were half rotten. A sickening crunch accompanied his foot sinking into the roof, and he subsequently lost his balance, rolling down the slats, and landing hard on the solid timbers of the dock.

Yjarrn tried to breathe, but the wind had been brutally forced from his lungs on impact. He laid there helpless, like a fish that had been thrown up onto the dock, flopping around in a vain attempt to find a way to get oxygen into his body. It was probably only moments later when his lungs finally, painfully pulled in the surrounding air, but it felt like an eternity. Yjarrn sat up, greedily sucking air into his lungs over and over until he heard the sound of feet clattering down the dock to his left. Why could they not let it go? At this point, he severely regretted his joke. It was not even that funny. No one in the Bunkhouse laughed except one little girl, and that was certainly not worth this. He had no choice. He took a deep breath and leaped off the side of the dock into the water below.

The fall was farther than it seemed, and the water was far colder than Yjarrn had anticipated. However, he forced himself to stay under and swim farther away, afraid that the guards would continue to track him if they saw where he was going. He soon emerged on the stony shore across from the dock and below the deck of the vacant house the city had still not found a buyer for. He crept up the steps to the back deck of the house, keeping low, and hid behind a barrel.

The guards had just arrived at the spot where he had jumped off the dock, and they were looking around at the water under the dock and scouting the shoreline. Was he seriously worth this effort? What was the world coming to when he would be hunted down for trying to crack a joke? It was at that point, hiding amongst the barrels, wet and shivering, that Yjarrn of Ivarstead vowed never to tell another joke. He did not keep this vow.

Slowly the guards began to trickle away until only the guard who had originally stopped him remained. Yjarrn heard him swear loudly as he buried the blade of his sword into the dock post. He spent the next minute or so swearing even louder as he attempted to dislodge it, and when he finally did, he left.

"I wonder what knotted up his undergarments," Yjarrn whispered to himself.

The backdoor of the house had not been used for some time as cobwebs covered the keyhole and other parts of the door. Yjarrn tried to rake the lock quickly, but it refused to yield. After breaking off a pick in the door, something he was fairly sure a good quality pick would not do, he gave up on finesse. He looked over to the dock and around the corner toward the stables. No one was there, at least no one who was paying any attention. He braced himself against the handrail opposite the door, and pushed off, planting his foot directly between the double doors. He heard a crack, and once again, he scanned the area around to make sure he had not given himself away. When he was again sure no one was watching, he repeated the action, and the doors succumbed. Yjarrn darted into the house and closed the doors behind him.

"Why haven't I tried that before?" Yjarrn asked himself. "That was a lot easier than fiddling with picks on a difficult lock."

After catching his breath, Yjarrn stood up. The doors swung loosely in the doorframe, but that problem was easily taken care of by the big chest just inside the door. Nothing was inside, but it was easily heavy enough to keep the doors closed once he slid it up against them.

Yjarrn plopped himself down on the dusty bed. The interior of the house was in far worse shape than the exterior. It was dirty and neglected. Cobwebs covered every conceivable place where a spider might think to build their traps, and the faint smell of mold permeated the stale, musty air. He could not help but think that Jarl Blackbriar might have had a better time selling the dump if she had someone clear it out or at least open a window.

"Her loss and my gain, I suppose," he said, laying back on the bed.

Yjarrn immediately regretted that action and a squeal caused him to jump up out of the bed. A small skeever twisted itself out from under the furs and straw and scurried down into the basement. Yjarrn decided that "gain" might not necessarily mean good. He grabbed the broom from beside the door and began beating bed. if he was going to be sleeping here tonight, he was not planning on sharing the bed with anything. The broom also did quite well in clearing the cobwebs away, and he swept the dust from the floor off into the basement.

"Enjoy that, vermin!" he hissed as he swept the last bit of filth down to where the skeever had fled. "You come back up here, and I'll put the handle of this across your ugly face." He did not expect the skeever or anything else down there to understand him, but the threat made him feel better about relaxing in his new hideaway.

Yjarrn spent the night there and the next day. There was plenty of food hidden away in the barrels that had not yet spoiled, chunks of beef somehow preserved for who knows how long by the salt in the barrels. He laid back on the bed, munching on the salty beef and reading the second volume of Songs of the Return. It was an easy read. He knew the story pretty well already, as most Nords did, though he personally thought the Nords were rather stubborn to bother coming back at all. The way they described Atmora and the distant green summers, the place did not sound all that bad. Why leave? Why bother trying to fighting an enemy who had almost wiped you out? Yjarrn sighed. It made sense. Nords, for the most part, were rather stubborn, to the point of stupid, and coming back did end up working out for them. Yjarrn was so involved reading the book, he did not hear the grinding of metal in the lock of the front door.

The grinding of the metal scraped around until a small click sounded and the door slid open. It was the click that finally got Yjarrn attention, and he looked up to see a man with long red hair standing in the front room of the house staring at him with a sly smile.

"That was some display you put on yesterday, lad," the man said.

Yjarrn jumped up off the bed. "Who are you?" he asked.

The man continued as if he had never spoken. "It was tremendously gratifying to see Hrolgir that upset after you lost him," he said. "He has been causing me all kinds of trouble ever since he was promoted last year. I guess he got a taste for success."

"What do you want?" Yjarrn asked, slowly reaching for the handle of his broom.

"No need for that, lad," the man said. "I'm here for you, but I don't want to arrest you. I represent an organization the specializes in making people rich, and I think we could have a mutually beneficial relationship. My name is Brynjolf."

"Yjarrn," the scared squatter replied.

Brynjolf paused. After a moment, he chuckled, "Really? Like what goes on the loom?"

Yjarrn sighed, "Yeah."

Brynjolf coughed and composed himself, "It's a pleasure to meet you," He seemed to stumble over what he was going to say next, but he caught himself and eventually decided not to repeat the name. He sat down at the table and asked, "How would you like to be rich?"

"It hasn't worked out yet," Yjarrn said.

"Clearly," Brynjolf replied. "But I can make it happen."

"Yeah?" Yjarrn asked. "How?"

Brynjolf smiled, "You clearly have the skill to slip away from the city guard when it's called for, and you can get into a house, even one most could not hope of entering without the key. Do I really have to spell it out for you completely?"

"It would help, yes," Yjarrn said.

Brynjolf sighed, "Alright, I assume you have heard of the Thieves' Guild?"

"From time to time," Yjarrn said.

"I believe we might have a place for you if you are interested in making a bit of coin," Brynjolf suggested. "It's not the best of places, but it certainly beats out what you have here."

"Aren't you that merchant that keeps trying to push that weird elixir in the marketplace?" Yjarrn asked.

"Falmer blood elixir, yes," Brynjolf said.

"Do you know how disgusting that sounds?" Yjarrn asked. "I don't know how many people actually know what a falmer is, but would you want to drink its blood?

"You might have a point there, lad," Brynjolf conceded.

"Is it actually blood?"

"Of course not," Brynjolf said. "It's lake water with some animal fat and red dye."

"Still gross, but a little less so," Yjarrn said. "Maybe call it extract or something else."

"That is not the point of this visit," Brynjolf said.

"But even falmer extract sounds pretty bad," Yjarrn said. "I wouldn't want to drink anything extracted from a falmer, blood or anything else."

"Can we get back to what I was offering?" Brynjolf asked, the irritation rising in his voice.

"Maybe call it Extract of the Sea and use blue dye?" Yjarrn suggested

"Enough!" Brynjolf snapped. "Do you want to join?"

Yjarrn nodded.

"Good," Brynjolf said, leaning back in the chair. "There is a bar in the Ratway called the Ragged Flagon. Get there and I will tell you more about how we can make each other a lot of gold." Brynjolf sighed, stood up, glared at his irritating candidate, and without another word, left the house.

After Brynjolf left, Yjarrn walked directly to the door and locked it. Then he grabbed the chair, wedged it against the door, and sat down staring thoughtfully into the fire. What was he going to do? On one hand, the Thieves' Guild had been gaining a little more notoriety in the last year since the dragons had once again disappeared, but they were far from perfect. It was not that long ago Yjarrn had turned the other way while the guard turned a Thieves' Guild member into a pincushion. In the chaotic minutes following the thief's rather grisly demise, Yjarrn had taken the opportunity to lift what he had taken.

He could still see the thief's face, full of surprise, even at the moment of death, and it worried him that the guard was willing to give a summary execution for a stolen candlestick and a couple of gems. If he joined up with the guild, he would be declaring an allegiance in the war currently being waged in Riften, and he was not sure he wanted to make himself a target.

Yjarrn woke up a few hours later. The orange embers of the fire still glowed brightly in the hearth, and the night wind whistled through the tiny spaces between the house's timbers. He stumbled over to the bed and fell down on it, but the moment he hit it, he could not sleep. His mind raced over the risks and possible rewards of joining the guild. One statement kept going through his head, "How would you like to be rich?" Brynjolf asked him this question as if all it would take to have pockets full of gold would be his signature on the contract. Yjarrn sat up in the bed, staring at the front door of the house as if he expected it to give him the answer to his apprehensions, but it only returned his stare with silent indifference. A moment later, he kicked the chair out of the way and left the house.

It was a cold night in Riften, and the cool air brought Yjarrn's senses to life as he crept through the city streets carefully avoiding anyone who might recognize him. He could still hear the new bard Keerava had recently hired singing her heart out in the Bee and Barb. She had a great voice. It reminded him of Lynly Star-Sung back in Ivarstead. She was the only reason he ever went to the Vilemyr Inn, but he had never worked up the courage to approach her. She was far too beautiful, and had he walked up to her he knew nothing remotely charming would come out of his mouth. Why bother chasing an impossible dream? This one, however, the dream of getting rich with the Thieves' Guild, that seemed so much more achievable. Maybe, if he was successful, he might find something to say to her, but if not, he would always remember how her voice rang in perfect harmony with the melody of her lute on cold nights in Ivarstead, nights just like this one.

The marketplace was empty. Across the channel, Yjarrn could see a guard leaning against the wall outside the Temple of Mara. He waited, but the guard did not move. A few minutes later, another guard walked passed him and slapped the guard hard in the side of the helmet, buckling the man's knees. Yjarrn cursed his poor luck. The guard was asleep! If he had just gone, he would have been fine, but now the man was awake and likely in a foul mood. After giving the inattentive watch a firm dressing down, the patrol moved along back up the street toward Mistveil Keep. Yjarrn waited, hoping the guard would again slump back against his wall, but it never happened. Apparently, the wakeup call had been enough to get his attention, and now he was walking back and forth in front of the temple. What a pain in the backside! Why had he not gone? Anyone else would have gone! They would not have been worried that the guard was standing there! Then it hit him. Anyone else would have just walked across the marketplace like it was no big deal. He was not looking to nab anything! He was doing nothing wrong, just walking from one place to another. There was no need for the guard to stop him unless he remembered him from the afternoon before. Yjarrn took another look at the guard who now appeared to be wide awake and watching over the city's central plaza.

"Wonderful," he whispered, as the last hopes he had of the guard returning to his nap faded. "I might as well give it a shot," he sighed. "What could go wrong?" Then he answered his own question several times over in his mind and swallowed hard. None of those seemed like pleasant ways to die. So, along with all of his reservations, Yjarrn stood up and confidently stepped out into the plaza.

A few strides in, long before the guard had ever laid eyes on him, Yjarrn tripped on a loose stone and fell face first into the short wall surrounding the central market. In severe pain and grasping his face but certain the guard had heard the result of his clumsiness, Yjarrn squirmed his way back against the wall all the while fighting the intense urge to cry out, possibly with some less than flattering words for those responsible for laying the plaza's stonework. The guard called out, but Yjarrn stayed quiet. He could taste blood, and he felt the warmth of it on his hand. He pressed lightly at the throbbing place on his jaw and felt the tooth give way. He spit it out on the cobblestone and waited, listening. The last thing he wanted was the watchman to come over and try to help him. If anything would maximize his catch on being detained and ultimately arrested for resisting arrest yesterday, that would be it. The guard called out again. This time he was closer, and Yjarrn quietly scrambled away to the other side of the wall holding his bleeding face.

"Who is out here?" the guard asked. He was now standing where Yjarrn had tripped. If he looked down, he might be able to see the small spatter and smear of blood on the stones in the faint light of the moons.

Yjarrn waited, controlling his breathing as much as he could and putting pressure on his bleeding gum. This is not starting out well, he thought to himself. What was Brynjolf thinking bringing me on? I can't even walk casually across town. For a moment, it sounded like the guard had given up. He wandered around the area, looking into the deep shadows, but he found nothing. Yjarrn could hear his footsteps trudging back toward his place by the temple when he noticed two steel-clad feet standing in front of him.

Yjarrn looked up at the tall, Nord woman standing in front of him. She was completely outfitted in steel plate, except for a helmet, which seemed like a rather large oversight considering how vulnerable a person's head is in a fight, and this person looked ready for a fight. A streak of blue war paint covered most of the left side of her face and she carried a large single-edged battle ax with a wicked backspike. It was well careful and sharp, but it had been used, testifying to the combat she had put it through. Yjarrn could not remember the last time he had seen someone so intimidating. He almost called out for the guard when she reached down to help him up.

"Are you ok?" she asked. "It looks like you got into a bit of a scrap."

"I'm fine," Yjarrn said, excepting her help.

"Are you sure?" she asked. "It looks like you were bleeding quite a bit."

"Yes," Yjarrn said, embarrassed. "I tripped on the stones, knocked out a tooth." He could hear the guard coming over, and his heart started to beat faster. Should he make a run for it? There was no way he could push past this woman if she held onto him. In his mind was a picture of her easily holding him off the ground by the scruff like a helpless kitten until the guard made it over to arrest him. What was he going to do? If the guard arrested him, he might be the first member of the guild to be arrested before he was even initiated! Once that got out, he would never be able to show his face here again. He would have to move back to Ivarstead or over to Whiterun. Windhelm was out. Even if he wanted to move to the coldest, ugliest, most inhospitable city in all of Tamriel, the Civil War was still raging in Eastmarch. Ulric was barely holding on to Windhelm and Winterhold, and no one who was not involved with the war was going north.

"It's alright!" the woman said, waving to the guard. "He'll be fine."

"If you say so Mjoll," the guard said. He turned around and walked back to his post.

Mjoll? Mjoll the Lioness? She was back? Yjarrn suddenly felt the need to find a toilet. This was the Hunter of Thieves, the one who was making it her business to drive the Thieves' Guild to extinction? He felt faint on his feet and suddenly found himself trying very hard not to fall over again. Trying to steady himself he asked a question, "What are you doing out here?"

"I'm on the lookout for members of the Thieves' Guild," she said casually as if she was not going to bury that ax in their skulls when she found them. "Have you seen anyone skulking around out here?"

"Nope!" Yjarrn said quickly.

Mjoll's eyes narrowed. "What are you doing out here?" she asked.

Yjarrn grasped at the first thing he saw. "I'm headed to Mistveil Keep," he said. "The steward needs me to make some deliveries."

Mjoll nodded, "Don't get too mixed up with the jarl. She still has dealings with some rather disreputable people. You seem nice. I wouldn't want you to fall on the wrong side of things."

In that moment, more than anything else, Yjarrn did not want to fall on the wrong side of things. He nodded, and Mjoll walked off passed the smithy and out to the docks. She was already gone when Yjarrn realized he was still nodding. Slowly, he brought his head to a stop and swallowed. He was tempted to return quietly to the abandoned house, but he had already come this far. He glanced over to see the guard watching him and quickly turned and walked over the bridge toward the keep. A quick right and a few steps down the stairs and Yjarrn was standing in front of the door to the Ratway. In front of the door was an iron cage door, which the jarl recently had locked, but the lock was easy enough to rake open. Yjarrn opened the door and quietly descended down into the tunnels below the city, unsure exactly where he was going or what he might stumble into once he got there.

No matter how quiet Yjarrn attempted to be, the sound of his boots against the stone steps seemed as loud as a smith's hammer in the stone tunnel running underneath Riften. Softly, step by step he crept through the passageway, pausing from time to time to listen. At first, there was nothing except the distant sound of water flowing through the sewers, but very quickly a dim light appeared ahead of him. As he approached the warm glow of a fire, he could make out the voices of two men arguing over something. They were trying to stay quiet, but their voices echoed off the stone walls with complete clarity.

"Why are we still down here?" the first voice said. "Do you know how long we have been sitting around that fire waiting for something to happen? Over a year, a ruddy year, and we are still living in this sewer!"

"Shhh!" the second voice cautioned. "Do you want someone to hear you? We have to wait for the right moment. You don't worry about that. You worry about bashing people's heads in, I'll worry about Guild."

"If they haven't found us by now, they aren't going to," the first said. "We could hold a dinner party for all the jarls and they still would not know we are here. No one comes this way! No one ever has!"

The second voice did not respond for a moment. He seemed to be weighing his companion's words. "I have to admit, I have not seen anyone down here in quite some time," he said.

"Fifteen months," the first added.

"Hmmm, yes," the second voice admitted. "Maybe so."

"Absolutely so," the first said. "I've been marking the days on the wall over here."

"Wow! How have I not noticed that?" the second asked.

"Because you are constantly absorbed in yourself and this plan of yours," accused the first voice. "It hasn't worked because no one is here, and no one cares. I used to be worried about the guild finding out about us, but they haven't. If they have, they obviously don't care. Why? Because there is nothing to care about. The only people to rob down here are a few lowlifes and that boxer who keeps getting bored and punching skeevers, and they don't have any money. If they did, they wouldn't be here! Why would we come to the sewers to rob people? People don't like sewers. They smell like crap!"

"My plan is great!" the second voice responded. Apparently, he had dismissed his companion's line of reason. "It just hasn't worked yet! We just need more time and we are going to be rich! Rich! We'll have a house as big as the Black-briars! You'll see!"

Yjarrn jumped when he heard a sickening crunch followed by the thud of a body hitting the stone floor. The sound of several more impacts echoed down the tunnel, and Yjarrn had to grab his mouth to keep himself from crying out. He quickly hid in one of the notches built into the side of the passageway and stayed quiet as the angry footsteps of one of the men stomped passed by.

"Gonna tell me to keep waiting down here the rest of my miserable life for something to happen," the man grumbled. "Nothing was ever gonna happen down here Stupid Drahff! Stupid plan! Had me sit down here in an ugly damp sewer for a ruddy year! What was I thinking? Hope you're happy!" he called back over his shoulder. "I took care of my part! Should have done it fifteen months ago and saved myself the irritation!"

The door up to the city slammed behind him before Yjarrn moved. He crept out of the small cubby, thankful the large, angry man had not noticed him. In the chamber, Yjarrn saw how the argument ended. There was not much left of Drahff's head and what was left looked like a sausage that had burst through its casing. The bloody mess did not take Yjarrn by surprise, but it did overturn his stomach, which had always been a little weak, in just the wrong way. At first, he heaved, but he managed to hold it back and turned away. Unfortunately, the image of Drahff's brains splattered across the stones was firmly fixed in his mind. Again, he held it back and attempted to flee the room, but as he did, a slick piece of Drahff sent his foot up over his head. Yjarrn landed next to the corpse, and this was too much for his stomach to handle. It emptied itself in violent spasms, adding to the already considerable mess. At some point, there is just nothing left to heave up. Despite his stomach's attempts to expel even more, Yjarrn managed to get to his feet and stumble out of the room.

Yjarrn leaned weakly against the wall spitting that nastiness from his mouth and trying to wait out the stomach spasms. He tore off his shirt, which was so covered in filth that it was no longer worth trying saving, and threw it back into the chamber with Drahff. Thankfully, his pants were still clean, though he did not know how, and the only filth on his boots was what he had stepped in.

"Ugghhh," he moaned, breathing heavily. "That was so disgusting."

"What was that?" he heard someone call out. "Who's there?"

The calls were coming from a room just passed a raised bridge, a contraption Yjarrn assumed was set in place by the Thieves' Guild to keep visitors away from their underground tavern and perhaps to make his first trial a bit more difficult. If Yjarrn was going to be honest with himself, he had already had just about all he was willing to take, but whoever was calling out sounded like they might need some help. Yjarrn was not usually the kind of person to give out a helping hand. He had not had very many, and most of the ones offered had wanted something in return. The voice seemed frail, though, almost vulnerable. It reminded him of his grandmother, and if she had somehow gotten lost down in a sewer like this when she was alive, Yjarrn would hope someone might be nice enough to show her the way out. Besides, he still wanted to get to the Flagon, if for no other reason than to see Brynjolf's face when he made it.

The sound of metal sliding against metal and then firmly into place preceded the lowering of the bridge into place. On the other side, still clutching the lever, was a woman dressed in rags who was not nearly as old as her voice made her sound. As soon as she saw Yjarrn she ran in the opposite direction.

"Wait!" Yjarrn called after her. "I'm not going to hurt you. I just want to know where the Ragged Flagon is! Come on!" His hands flopped down to his sides as the woman disappeared into the dimness. Unfortunately, Yjarrn did not have to wait long to see her again. She emerged from the far chamber running directly at Yjarrn swinging an ax with bloodlust in her eyes.

Yjarrn's eyes bulged and several unseemly words escaped his lips as he turned and ran. Keenly aware of the mess he was coming up on, Yjarrn deftly leaped over Drahff and hid around the corner by the fire. The crazy, ax-wielding vagrant charged into the room swinging wildly in all directions, and not having taken the state of the floor into account, promptly slipped in the filth and landed on what was left of Drahff. Covered in blood and sick and screaming in what Yjarrn could only guess was a mix of rage and confusion, the woman attempted to stand. When that failed, she dove for her ax, which only succeeded in covering her with even more filth, and when she finally got to her weapon, both her and it were so covered with nastiness, her first swing sent it flying out of her hands as she fell once again to the stones. This time she did not attempt to get up. She lay quietly, as if asleep on the floor next to the severely disrespected corpse of Drahff. Yjarrn stood in the corner by the fire, hardly believing what he had just seen.

"You need to find your calm, lady," Yjarrn muttered as he carefully stepped around the mess and out onto the landing. He was moving quietly now. He was not interested in meeting anyone else down in the Ratway, and if the first taste of the Flagon was anything like this, he was out, no question. After crossing the bridge, he slipped around the corner into another chamber and passed that he came to a door. Slowly, expecting something horrible to happen at any moment, Yjarrn opened the door.

The chamber on the other side of the door was dark except for the light shining in from the hole in the ceiling and the candles and chandelier illuminating a bar at the far end. Yjarrn could see several individuals dressed in dark clothing sitting at tables drinking and talking. Standing water took up a large portion of the floor, and a dank, musty smell filled his nostrils. It was not the most luxurious place he had ever seen, but it was far from the worse hideout a group of miscreants could have picked to hole up in. He crept silently around the edge of the pool, careful not to give away his presence until he knew for sure he was in the right place. Then, he saw what he was looking for. Brynjolf was sitting at one of the tables talking to a smaller bald man. This had to be the place! Yjarrn gave himself a once over. He was already coming in shirtless and a bit rough for wear. There was no need to have any lingering pieces of Drahff on him as well. Satisfied with his appearance, Yjarrn stepped out of the shadows and walked into the Ragged Flagon.

"Well, it's about time you made it here," Brynjolf said, throwing back the rest of his pint and slamming the mug on the table. "I was beginning to think you weren't going to take me up on my offer."

"I nearly didn't," Yjarrn replied.

"What changed your mind?" Brynjolf asked.

"Poverty," Yjarrn said.

Brynjolf nodded, "Fair enough, lad. Come with me."

Yjarrn started to ask who everyone was, but Brynjolf patted him hard on the back and nearly shoved him toward a door at the back of the Flagon. Yjarrn started to open it, but Brynjolf grabbed him by the shoulder. "Nope!" he said. "This way." The thief opened up a wardrobe placed sitting up against the wall and removed the back panel. "Follow me," he instructed.

As Yjarrn followed Brynjolf through yet another passageway, the thief began to tell him about the Guild. It was not a particularly flowery introduction, bare bones at best, but it gave the new thief the rundown of what he could expect as the newest member of their organization.

They came to another door and passed through it into the largest chamber yet. Yjarrn started to wonder just how big this subterranean network was and whether the biggest part of Riften was above or below ground level. At this point, he would not be surprised if the next door had an entire city behind it.

"This is the Cistern," Brynjolf said as they entered. Once again much of the floor of this room was covered by standing water, though the smell was not quite as overpowering as it was in the Flagon. Beds lined the walls of the Cistern, and Yjarrn saw the eyes of several shady characters lock onto him as they walked toward the center of the room. A shadowy figure looked up from a desk at the far end of the room. When they saw Yjarrn, they moved around from behind the table with a silent elegance that was difficult to miss. "This is our Guild Master," Brynjolf whispered. "Be polite, she's not mean, but she also does not forget a slight."

The dark elf met them at the center of the Cistern. "Who is this you have brought me, Brynjolf?" the Guild Master asked.

"This is Yjarrn," Brynjolf introduced him. "Yjarrn, this is our Guild Master, Karliah."

Karliah reached out a small, almost delicate hand to his, and as he took hold of her hand, she searched his eyes with a penetrating stare. Unlike most dark elves, her eyes were a vibrate shade of purple that seemed to peer deep into him, seeking out anything he might be holding back.

"What brings you here?" she asked. Even though she had let go of his hand, her eyes had not released him.

"I would like to do a little better than scraping by," Yjarrn said.

Karliah smiled, "I think we can help you with that. Brynjolf, get him outfitted, please. Our members are professionals. They should not look homeless."

"Right away," Brynjolf answered.

Karliah turned, casually running her fingers across Yjarrn's stomach as she did. He startled slightly at her touch, and he thought she might have let out a tiny laugh. The Guild Master walked back to her desk, though it seemed almost as if she glided for all the sound she made and turned her attention back to the papers spread out over it.

"Yjarrn," Brynjolf barked. "Your attention."

Shaken from his trace, Yjarrn only nodded.

"I need you to go see Tonilia back in the Flagon," he said. "She has your new armor. Do you have a weapon?"

Yjarrn shook his head.

"Hmm, I don't think that has been an issue before," Brynjolf muttered. "We have a smith down here now. I'm not sure what else he's good for if not for this. You can see him after Tonilia and then come back here. I have an idea for your first job."

It was not until Yjarrn got back to the tavern that he realized he had no idea who Tonilia was. He looked around. There were only two women in the Flagon, so he figured his chances were fifty-fifty. The first woman he approached was a blonde Imperial who was drinking alone at one of the tables. Yjarrn had not made it a couple of steps passed the bar when she saw him approach.

"What do you want?" she said, her speech slightly slurred by drink.

"I'm looking for Tonilia," Yjarrn replied.

"Do I look like Tonilia?" the woman asked.

Yjarrn's jaw dropped. He had no idea how to answer this question, and the woman already seemed ready to draw her blade. "I don't know who Tonilia is," he finally managed to say.

The woman glared at him. "Do you see this?" she asked attempting to motion to her face and nearly poking herself in the eye. "She does not look like this." One of her eyebrows rose as if ready to challenge whatever he had to say next, though Yjarrn suspected all the effort she was displaying might just be her attempting to stay upright in her chair.

O for one, I suppose, Yjarrn thought to himself, and he walked over to the Redguard woman sitting on the dock. He figured if this was no Tonilia, at least she looked a bit nicer than the Imperial and might be willing to direct him to her.

"Tonilia?" he asked hesitantly.

"What d' ya need?" she replied.

Success! Yjarrn thought, though he tried not to let the elation of not getting yelled at again show on his face. "Brynjolf told me to come to you for my armor," Yjarrn said.

"Right," Tonilia said. She reached back behind her into one of the crates. "Here's the jacket and the hood." She rummaged around in the crate some more, and not finding what she wanted, opened up another and grabbed a pair of leather boots and gloves off the top. "And here's the rest," she said handing them over.

"No," Yjarrn shook his head. "Brynjolf said I would be getting armor. This is leather."

Tonilia nodded, "That's the armor he was talking about."

"It's leather," Yjarrn replied.

"Yeah," she said.

"You realize the leather on the pants is far too thin to stop anything," Yjarrn said. "Arrows and blades are going to cut right through this, not to mention axes, and how am I going to run with an arrow in my leg?"

"There is such a thing as leather armor," Tonilia retorted.

"Sure," Yjarrn said. "But this isn't it. Sure the jacket might have thicker pieces to it, but they aren't certainly aren't water hardened. It's not really armor until you do that, though it'd be even better if you added some steel plates and make it into a brigandine."

The word did not flow off her tongue well. "Bri… gan-deen?" she asked. "But if we add steel, it would no longer be light armor."

"But this is hardly more than leather clothing," Yjarrn argued. "How can you honestly call it armor? Maybe if they wiped the flat of the blade across my backside I'd be alright, but if not…" Yjarrn did not bother to finish the statement.

"Listen," Tonilia dropped her voice. "We know it doesn't work as well as it could, but it has some nice enchantments."

"Like what?" Yjarrn asked.

Tonilia explained, "The jacket has increased carry weight."

"Why?" Yjarrn asked, confused.

"So you can carry more loot," Tonilia replied.

"Why not just sew a few extra pockets on the back right here?" Yjarrn asked. "And there are some places here in the front perfect for smaller pockets to hold gems. That has got to be cheaper than paying for an enchantment, don't you think?"

Tonilia just stared at him, unsure how to respond for a moment. "Look," she said. "It may not work the best…"

"You mean 'at all'," Yjarrn interrupted.

"Shut up!" Tonilia scolded him. "I know it's bloody leather, but…"

"Hopefully not," Yjarrn said.

"What?" she asked.

"I'm hoping not to bleed on it," Yjarrn replied.

Tonilia scowled at him. "That is not what I meant," she said.

He tried to start again, "That's…"

"Shut up!" Tonilia yelled. "Take the ruddy armor and be happy we gave you something to be dressed in, running around here half naked and then criticizing clothes, I ought to beat you senseless, you ungrateful s'wit!"

Yjarrn was not at all happy with the first impressions he was making in the Ragged Flagon. After Tonilia had harangued him off the small dock in front of everyone, the rest of the patrons seem loath to even speak to him. He made his way around the tables, doing his best to ignore the scathing glare he was getting from the barkeep, and walked over to the dark elf smith, who had set up shop in one of the spaces built into the outside wall of the chamber.

The smith was laughing as he walked up to him. "Boy, I have not seen Tonilia that angry in some time," he said. "Thanks for the show. I've been telling them for some time that thin leather might look good, but it isn't going to do a lick of good if an arrow hits it." He shook his head. "I have a lot of good pieces of steel here I would like to hammer out into some useful armor, but all they want are more weapons. I don't suppose you would want to commission some?"

"Sorry," Yjarrn said. "I don't have the coin for that yet."

"Shame," the smith murmured. "What's your name, boy?"

"Yjarrn," he replied.

The dark elf laughed and looked up at him. "Yjarrn?" he asked. "Like a ball of yarn?"

Yjarrn sighed, "Yes, like a ball of yarn."

The blacksmith whistled. "Oh, boy, you had better make a name for yourself or that name will do it for you, and not in a good way. Did your mother like you?"

"Apparently not," Yjarrn shrugged.

"Anyway, Yjarrn," the smith said. "My name is Vanryth Gatharian, and you must have come over here for something. What can I do for you?"

"I need a weapon," Yjarrn said.

"Of course," Vanryth sighed. "What are you looking for? A sword? That's what most of the new recruits ask for."

"What's wrong with a sword?" Yjarrn asked.

"Nothing, they just aren't the very useful for a thief, only really good for running a man through, and the Guild frowns heavily on that. Most of this lot opt for daggers," Vanryth said waving his hand toward the patrons over at the tavern. "A small blade is a better, more useful for prying as long as the tip is not too rigid, but everyone in the city is allowed to carry weapons! Why not carry something a bit bigger and more useful for getting in and out of places?"

"Like?" Yjarrn asked.

"An ax," Vanryth suggested handing Yjarrn one of his steel war axes. "This handy piece of weaponry can hack through a door or a chest rather quickly if you can't pick it open, and that backspike would work perfectly to pry open a door."

"As long as you don't mind grabbing hold of the blade," Yjarrn remarked. "I like the idea though. What about a war hammer? Do you have one of those?"

The smith gave him an odd look, but he looked through is chest and came up with a large, four-foot-long steel war hammer, and despite multiple pleas for him not to, places the hammer into Yjarrn's hands. The poor thief, unable to deal with the weighty weapon, dropped unceremoniously to the ground. With a lot of straining and groaning, Yjarrn managed to haul the weapon back up onto the table.

"This is not what I wanted," Yjarrn said.

"You asked for a war hammer," Vanryth said. "That's a war hammer. It's a bit large, but it is a great weapon."

"I'm sure it is," Yjarrn said. "But how am I supposed to sneak around unnoticed with this? It's enormous!"

"That would be difficult," the dark elf admitted.

"Impossible is the word you're looking for," Yjarrn corrected him. "Impossible. I would like a hammer, maybe a couple of feet long that I can carry in one hand."

"You can't carry that in one hand," the smith laughed.

"I can't carry that with two hands," Yjarrn corrected him again.

Both of them stared at each other for a few awkward moments.

Yjarrn sighed, "Can you make something like that just smaller? About this big?" Yjarrn placed his hands about two feet apart from each other and looked the smith directly in the eye. "Like this? With a much smaller head on it?"

Vanryth looked at Yjarrn like the young thief had completely lost his mind. "I have never seen anything like that before in all my years here in Skyrim."

"Really?" Yjarrn asked. "Never?"

Vanryth shook his head, "No."

Again, both of them stared at each other awkwardly for a few moments, but this time Vanryth broke the uncomfortable silence. "I'll see what I can do about it," he said.

"Thank you," Yjarrn said, throwing his arms out to his sides in relief. "I'll be back tomorrow for it with the coin."

"I thought you said you didn't have any coin," Vanryth said.

"Hopefully that will change by tomorrow," Yjarrn called back over his shoulder.

"Welcome back, lad," Brynjolf greeted Yjarrn when he returned to the Cistern. "I trust you got yourself sorted."

Yjarrn nodded.

Brynjolf smiled, "Good, because I think I have a job you're going to enjoy. It's nothing too difficult, just enough to get your feet wet, and it helps us out quite a bit as well."

Brynjolf's mischievous smile had piqued the new recruit's interest. "What is it?" he asked.

"How would you like to get a little revenge?" Brynjolf asked.

Yjarrn was confused. He wasn't much for any kind of retaliation, and as far as he was concerned, there was no one he felt the need to settle a score with. What was Brynjolf alluding to? The biggest scare he took recently was that psychopath in the Ratway, and she had already taken a pretty rough spill for her part in scaring the living snot out of him. "Who are you talking about?" he asked Brynjolf.

Brynjolf gave him a questioning look and said, "Hrolgir, of course!"

"Who?" Yjarrn asked.

Brynjolf's questioning look turned to one of amazement, and Yjarrn felt a little sheepish for forcing his new boss to expound. "The guard who nearly killed you," Brynjolf explained. "And if you were any fatter, he likely would have. He usually doesn't give thieves the chance to surrender."

Yjarrn gulped. He knew things had been bad, but he didn't know just how bad.

"That's why we keep surveillance on him," Brynjolf continued. "Which is how we saw your little escapade. I figured you'd be begging for this job, but if you don't want it, I'll see if Vex is sober."

"No," Yjarrn said. "I'll take it."

"Alright then," Brynjolf said. His smile had now returned. "I need you to plant this on him." Brynjolf handed Yjarrn a small bottle made from opaque purple glass. "Do you know what it is?" he asked.

"Of course," Yjarrn said.

Brnjolf continued, "Riften has had a growing skooma problem recently, and our new jarl has been doing her best to get rid of it. She is not the kind of person to tolerate anyone making money without giving her a cut, and they are operating out of bounds. If we can implicate Hrolgir as part of that ring, he is going to disappear, and I for one, am looking forward to having him out of the picture."

"I see," Yjarrn said, taking the vial. "Anything else?"

"Yes, once you get that on his person, I want you to drop a few more off at his house. We need to get enough into his possession that he looks like a dealer. It's the door just across from you if you leave back the way you came through the Flagon, or you could plant them first if you want. Either way, you do that, and the rest will be taken care of," the veteran thief promised.

By the way, Brynjolf was speaking, Yjarrn got the feeling he was just a small cog in a much larger machine. He just hoped he managed his part well enough and the rest of it worked together as smoothly as Brynjolf seemed to think it would.

"Hey!" Brynjolf nudged him. "Are you alright, lad?"

"Absolutely," Yjarrn lied. "Never better."

Brynjolf nodded, "Of you go then."

As Yjarrn made his way out of the Cistern to the Flagon and back out the Ratway, he could not help thinking about something Brynjolf said, "He is going to disappear." There are a lot of things that could be meant by the word "disappear." The jarl could reassign him somewhere else. Having Hrolgir out at Fort Greenwall or patrolling of the farms would certainly make it easier on the Guild. The jarl could easily expel him from the guard, and the embarrassment would force him to move to another city or even look to cross one of the borders over to Cyrodiil or Morrowind. Surely Byrnjolf didn't mean the "show up floating in the lake" kind of disappear, right? What kind of jarl would do that? Yjarrn's expertly crafted rationalization had helped allay his growing guilt by the time he stepped out next to the channel of the lower city. Now all he had to do was find Hrolgir. It shouldn't be too difficult. The problem would be making sure the guard did not see him.

Yjarrn's heart was beating like a rabbit's who had just realized he had burrowed into a wolf's den. The city had taken on the air of enemy territory. This was the guard's home turf, and he was the trespasser. Luckily, a couple of the enchantments on his "armor" were much more useful than carry weight, with the noticeable exception of his hood, which was good for nothing more than shading his eyes from the sun.

Yjarrn decided to plant the skooma at Hrolgir's house first. If things did go wrong when he attempted to put the drugs on his person, at least there would be something there that might save the job. He could see the door the moment he exited the Ratway and crossed the channel over to it. He quickly scanned the area, and as soon as no one was watching, he deftly picked the lock. He inched the door open just far enough for him to see that there were no lights on in the home. Even the hearth appeared to be quiet and cold. The burglar took on more glance around and then backed quickly into the house and shut the door behind him.

In the dimness of Hrolgir's home, Yjarrn was effectively blind. He had spent just enough time outside for his eyes to adjust, and now his pupils were doing the best they could to expand in order to let in all the available light. Had he been smarter, the thief would have merely waited the few moments until he could see again, but being nervous and in a hurry, he immediately turned and moved toward a bookcase on the back wall, one of the only structures he could make out in the darkness. Unfortunately, as he strode hastily forward, he caught his hip on the edge of an unseen dresser. The pain was excruciating, shooting through is hip and down his leg.

Yjarrn cried out before he could stop himself, "Mother… father! Why?!" He sunk instantly to his knees, his eyes wet with tears. "Who puts a ruddy dresser there?!" After a few moments of mostly being irritated with himself, the pain dissipated and Yjarrn could see that the dresser was up against the wall just as it should be. "That was stupid," he muttered to himself as he snuck over to the bookcase. He placed a couple of the vials of skooma on one of the shelves and dropped the largest one in the chest, keeping the smallest to plant on Hrolgir himself.

Once he left the house, Yjarrn walked up the steps to the main part of the city. He tried to act as casual as possible, but he was afraid of getting identified. The clothes he was wearing were rather obvious. Everyone in the Ragged Flagon and the Cistern were wearing something similar in black or varying shades of brown, and every thief he had seen caught in the city was wearing exactly what he was. He almost expected to hear the guards call out the moment he stepped up onto ground level, but they didn't. Strangely enough, they seemed oblivious to what he was wearing and seemed to regard him as they always had. Maybe it was some strange effect of the getup Tonilia had given him, or perhaps the guards and even the citizens of Riften were just missing a little something in their ability to recognize the blatantly obvious. After standing in front of Mistveil Keep in plain sight of at least two guards as well as everyone in the marketplace, Yjarrn decided that whatever the reason was that he was not already face down on the stones, it was working for him and he would go with it. He hid himself in the short alleyway between the keep and the Blackbriar mansion. The barracks and the jail were up by the keep, and any guard who wanted to get down to the city would have to pass within his line of sight to get there.

A few hours passed. At first, Yjarrn stood leaning against the side of the mansion. The standing turned to pacing, and after a couple more hours, he found himself sitting up against the stone wall wondering when in all of Tamriel Hrolgir would be starting his rounds. Yjarrn's focus was starting to drift, and as he was gazing off into the marketplace he saw one of his colleagues looking standing casually against the marketplace's stone wall by the Argonian jeweler's stand. She was a Nord woman, dressed almost exactly like he was, except without the nearly worthless hood, and like him, attracting no attention from those surrounding her. She looked disinterested and bored at her post, but maybe it was just part of her cover. Yjarrn guessed that this was the other thief on the job, probably waiting to tip off the guard once she saw him finish his part. She glanced over at him, and Yjarrn averted his gaze. He could feel his face flush, and he berated himself for the awkward moment, telling himself to keep his mind on his mark.

About half an hour later that mark came strolling down the steps of the keep and turned right down the street leading in front of the mansion. Yjarrn ducked his head just enough for the hood to shield his face and congratulated himself for his smoothness and for finding a use for the hood as more than a sun visor. He listened as Hrolgir's steps moved closer and closer. As they drew near, he raised up his head enough to see the man's boots, and as he planted his foot next to Yjarrn, the thief slipped he small vial of skooma into his boot, between the fur and the leather front. Once Hrolgir passed, Yjarrn looked over toward his accomplice to give her the signal that it was done, but she was already gone. Yjarrn was impressed. The woman must have eyes like a hawk. He shrugged. His part was complete, and the only thing left to do was escape back down to the Cistern where he had no doubt Brynjolf was waiting with glowing accolades.

Yjarrn slowly picked himself up and walked down the alleyway, passed the walled-off courtyard behind the Blackbriar estate, to the graveyard. it was a creepy place to make into a secret entrance, but that must have been the point. Nords were not the kind to spend much time in places like this, and when he arrived, Yjarrn indeed saw that no one was around to save the statue of Talos that a few rowdy legionnaires tipped over as they celebrated taking the city. It had laid there, broken, for nearly half a year, but no one had bothered cleaning it up. Yjarrn had never thought much about it before, but knowing now what he knew of the jarl, he guessed she might have been keeping it there for a reason.

The shadowmarks that served as decorative windows of the small crypt marked the structure as the entrance to the underground lair of thieves. He found the same mark on the stone sarcophagus inside. It was his first time entering the Cistern by this route, and he pushed the button with some in trepidation, seriously hoping this was not some horrible guild joke that ended with him face to face with a rotting corpse. To his relief the stone below him shifted, revealing steps and a few wooden slats covering a small tunnel with a ladder just inside. Yjarrn walked down the steps, pulled the chain to close the crypt entrance, lifted the slats out of the way, and climbed down the ladder. It was not an incredibly long descent, and at the bottom, he found himself in one of the side passageways coming off the Cistern. Brynjolf was sitting there waiting for him.

"How'd it go, lad?" he asked before Yjarrn had even turned around.

Startled, Yjarrn let go of the ladder. He was grateful Brynjolf had at least waited until one of his feet was on the ground. He spun around saying, "I think it went pretty well."

"That's what I heard," Byrnjolf said, smiling.

Yjarrn looked back at him suspiciously, "Then why did you ask?" After an awkward moment he continued, "Forget that, how did you know? I just planted the skooma on him not a few minutes ago and came right back. How could you possibly know how it went?"

The two of them stared awkwardly at each other until Brynjolf held up a small coin purse and asked, "You want your pay?"

"Of course," Yjarrn said, snatching the leather pouch out of his hand. It nearly dropped out of his hand. "How much is this?" he asked, surprised at the ridiculously weighty purse.

"It's 300 septims," Brynjolf replied. "Not too bad, huh?"

Yjarrn's eyes widened. "Holy crap, what are they made out of?" he asked.

Brynjolf's eyebrow rose. "Gold, of course," he said.

"Gold!" Yjarrn exclaimed. "This purse has got to weigh twenty pounds! How am I supposed to carry it around?"

Brynjolf shrugged.

"Good thing I know where to get rid of some of this now," Yjarrn said. He tried tying it to his belt, which failed. It was not until he dropped half of it in the chest by his bed and distributed the rest of the coins evenly in the different pockets of his jacket that he was finally able to walk over to the Ragged Flagon without feeling leaning severely in either direction. He walked passed everyone seated at the tables without a word, which might have seemed rude if anyone there had wanted to speak to him, and directly over to Vanryth Gatharian.

"Hey there," the smith said with a smile. He was the only one in the entire Flagon besides Brynjolf who had ever acted kindly toward Yjarrn. "I hope everything worked out for you, mostly because I could really use the coin for this hammer." The dark elf reached down into the chest and brought out a newly made, onehanded, steel war hammer. "I just finished putting her together this morning," he added. "What do you think?"

"It looks great!" Yjarrn marveled. The head of the hammer looked just like the twohanded war hammer Vanryth had shown him earlier, except it was much smaller in order to be easily wielded in one hand. He stepped out of Vanryth's shop and gave the weapon a few swings. "It swings well. Did you test the steel?"

"Of course," Vanryth said. "The steel hardened up nicely on the quenching. No need to worry about that. It will hold up well."

"Excellent," Yjarrn said. "How much do I owe you?"

"Well," the smith said, scratching his chin. "A custom job like that from an expert weaponsmith like me will cost you seventy-five septims."

"Done," Yjarrn said. He handed over the coin, and Vanryth threw in a frog at no charge and showed the young thief how to secure the hammer to belt with the steel ring. "Thank you," Yjarrn said, admiring the look of his first weapon hanging from his hip.

Vanryth smile, "It's my pleasure, boy. If for some reason, you might need it repaired, come right one back, and I'll take care of it for you, though I doubt you will. I've never had anyone come by needing me to fix a weapon I've made." Vanryth paused for a moment then continued, "Or any other weapon for that matter."

Yjarrn gave him a nod and then headed back over to the Flagon's bar. It had been a long but very successful day, and he felt he deserved a drink. At the bar, he ordered a bottle of Blackbriar mead, which the barkeep delivered, and he prepared to enjoy a celebration by himself until he realized someone else was sitting next to him.

"I wanted to congratulate you on a job well done," a voice next to him said. It was the bald man Yjarrn had seen when he first entered the Ragged Flagon, and it was the first time he had heard the man speak. "The name's Delvin," he said holding out his hand. "How do you do?"

"Doing just fine," Yjarrn said.

"I can see that," Delvin said, motioning to the bottle. "It's a good year. Vekel must like you alright."

Yjarrn looked at the label on the bottle. "That's good to know," he said. "I didn't think anyone around here liked me but the smith, and that's because I bought from him."

Delvin smiled, "Eh, don't worry yourself about it none. It can be a tough group, and they don't much like getting invested in a person until they know said person can handle themselves. It's nothing personal. We've just had a few too many recruits not return from jobs. It was worse a little while back before we realized the Guild Master was a cheat and a murderer."

"Karliah?" Yjarrn asked.

"Nah," Delvin said waving his hand. "Mercer, the one who ran things before her. It's a long, complicated story that I'm sure you'll piece together soon enough. Suffice it to say that we thought Karliah was the traitor. She was on the run from all of us, but she's a smart one. She started causing Mercer some problems, serious problems. Serious enough that he was forced to go hunt her down. She ended up dragging him back here, paralyzed, with evidence of his crimes. Our empty vault was the last bit of proof we needed that Mercer had been robbing us all blind. Brynjolf executed him on the spot, quick and clean, with no arguments. Ever since then, things have been going better for us."

"That's quite a story," Yjarrn said.

"We've had a bit of excitement recently," Delvin agreed. "But everything's been set right now."

"Glad to hear it," Yjarrn said.

"I see you met our resident shadow," Brynjolf said, taking the stool next to Yjarrn. "There is no one on earth that can equal Delvin when it comes to remaining unseen."

"Really?" Yjarrn asked, impressed.

"Absolutely," Brynjolf said. "On moonlit nights or in a darkened room, this man can literally become invisible."

"Stop it now," Delvin said. "You're making me blush."

"How do you feel about getting out in the field again tomorrow?" Brynjolf asked Yjarrn.

"Ah, come on Brynjolf," Delvin said. "Let the man enjoy his victory."

"I'd be happy to," Yjarrn said, jumping at the chance for another payday.

"Well then," Delvin said. "If you're so eager, I'll leave the two of you to it then. It was nice to meet you Yjarrn."

"Nice to meet you as well, Delvin" Yjarrn replied, but the master of stealth was already gone. Yjarrn spun around on his stool, but Delvin was nowhere to be seen. "Where did he go?" Yjarrn asked.

"Don't worry about that," Brynjolf said. "You have a job to do. We have a client who is obsessed with orcs. I don't mean that in an odd way. He is fascinated by their culture, and he has the idea that if he can return something to them of value, they will make him bloodkin."

"So, what does he need us for?" Yjarrn asked.

"He needs us to get him that something of value," Brynjolf replied. "He said the while he was watching the Largashbur Stronghold, he noticed the chief was wearing a new helmet, orcish but the design was different. He thinks the chief's forgewife must have made it for him, otherwise, he would never wear such a thing. I figure if it's that ugly, the chief might be happy it disappeared and just pissed enough to kill him if he brings it back. That's not our problem, though. You ready to rob some orcs?"

"You can count on me, boss," Yjarrn said.

Brynjolf nodded, "Have a good night then. Enjoy your evening."

Largashbur was on the southeast side of Lake Honrich, just off the road that went southwest out of Riften. It was an orcish stronghold like any other in Skyrim, small, solitary, self-sufficient, and unwilling to welcome outsiders unless circumstances necessitated it. Yjarrn spent a couple of days watching the stronghold from atop the rocks to the west, trying to get a grasp on the comings and goings of the place. For the most part, the orcs tended to stay inside their stronghold, except when venturing out to hunt in the surrounding woodlands. Those that did not go on these hunting forays spent their time training or at the forge. Yjarrn got his first look at the helmet around midday on his first day scouting the stronghold. It was indeed every bit as horrible as he might have imagined. Even from up on the rocks, Yjarrn could tell that whoever had fashioned the helmet, had abandoned traditional orcish design to attach ugly black horns sticking out awkwardly from both sides. The helmet was also flatter on the front and covered more of the face, which to Yjarrn, seemed like it might be the only positive aspect of this unfortunate eyesore.

It was on the morning of the third day that Yjarrn decided to make his move. Most of the tribe had gone out to hunt, as they had the previous two mornings, and he was reasonably sure the chief was still in his longhouse. The only person Yjarrn could see inside the compound was a female orc dressed in hooded black robes, and if he could not sneak passed an old woman, what good was he as a thief?

Yjarrn made his way off the side of the mountain as stealthily as he could. He had about two hours before the hunting party would return, and he hoped to be well on his way be to Riften by then. The rockface was steep, but it was nothing he could not handle. Everything seemed to be going well until he realized that he had gone down the wrong side of the rocks and was now faced with a rather sizable gap between where he was standing and the top of the timber palisade surrounding the stronghold. He turned back and tried to climb back up the rock in order to descend in a better direction, but he quickly realized that was going to be impossible. He was stuck. His only option was to attempt a jump. Fortunately for him, there was a little room to make a running start. Yjarrn backed up as far as there was room for and took a few deep breaths, wishing very much that he had left the rest of his gold in his stash box by his bed back in Riften. He paced out the steps to the edge, counting each one and marking the place on the rock from where he would leap. Then, he waited. If he missed, he could run, but if he did manage to clear the palisade, he would land on hard wooden planks. It was going to make a rather loud noise. He had the image in his head of being chased around the stronghold by a feeble old orc woman until someone showed up to put an end to his embarrassment. That was not the way he wanted to go out, so he looked for a place to hide once he landed, and the short watchtower was what he settled on. If he made the leap, that was where he was going to hide until he was sure all was well.

Yjarrn took another deep breath and ran full-on toward the mark. Everything was perfect. Every step landed exactly where it should. Then, as his foot fell on the mark and he leaped, the old orc woman stepped out of her hut directly ahead of him and turned her head to look directly at him. Her eyes widened, and her mouth opened in a snarl as Yjarrn flew through the air. He lost concentration and missed clearing the palisade, landing stomach first on one of the big, oak timbers. His cheeks puffed up as air rushed out of his lungs and the nasty taste of stomach acid reached the back of his throat. Yjarrn groaned, but he did not have time to hurt. The old orc was rushing as fast as she could toward the longhouse, and the last thing he needed was her raising the alarm for whoever was inside.

Yjarrn hauled himself painfully over the wall and rolled to his feet. Rushing down the steps, he locked onto the old woman and tore through the compound after her. He reached her just as she was passing in front of a large shrine bearing a comically oversized hammer and pulled her back against his chest, his hand firmly over her mouth.

"Don't cry out," Yjarrn whispered into her ear. "I do not want to hurt you. I just need that stupid-looking helmet your chief is wearing." He felt her relax, but she kept trying to turn her head. "Are you going to yell?" he asked.

She shook her head, and Yjarrn released his grip on her.

"You want the ugly thing?" she asked, surprised.

"Not for myself," Yjarrn quickly explained. "We have a client who hired us to nab it for him."

She looked even more confused now. "Why?" she asked. "It is the most absurd piece of armor I've seen in all my life."

Yjarrn shrugged. He wanted to end the conversation as quickly as possible and get on with the job.

The old orc nodded, "As far as I'm concerned. You can have it, but my son loves the foul thing."

"If you really hate it that much, do you think you can help me get my hands on it?" Yjarrn asked.

"No," she said, shaking her head. "That I will not do. I would never betray my son. However, if you promise me you will not kill him without him having the chance to defend himself, I will not cry out."

"Don't worry," Yjarrn replied. "That is not how we operate."

"Well then," the orc woman said. "I will be on my way." She turned away from Yjarrn and slowly walked back toward her hut.

Yjarrn guessed that she was running toward the longhouse because the chief was indeed inside. If he was, Yjarrn might be able to get out of this without another confrontation. He crept up to the door and checked the lock. It was secured, but the strange thing was that there was nothing except a flat piece of metal where the keyhole should have been. Yjarrn was a bit confused. He had never seen anything like this, a lock on a door that could not be picked. How was anyone supposed to unlock it? Was there even a key? He decided that it did not matter. he had the ultimate lockpick hanging from his belt. He pulled out his war hammer, hoped against all odds that the chief of the Largashbur tribe was stone deaf, and jammed the backspike between the door and the frame. It took a fair amount of muscling, but he quickly forced the door from its place.

The moment Yjarrn had the door opened, he understood why he had not been caught forcing it. Explicit groans filled the entire house, which was in truth only one room with two partial walls. Yjarrn could hear the bed moving to and fro with the overly exuberant and vigorous proceedings going on just passed the doorframe to his left.

This was going to be easier than he would have supposed, Yjarrn thought. This must be why the chief sends most of the tribe out to hunt every morning. With him indisposed, Yjarrn was going to have the run of the place. As soon as he found the helmet, he was gone. The thief quickly surveyed the room, and when he saw that the helmet was not in the front room, he started checking the rooms to the right while the moans of the chief and his companion covered any noise he might have made picking open chests and searching through belongings. Unfortunately, he came up with nothing other than a few gold coins, which he pocketed. There was only one terrifying reason why he could not find the helmet. It was in the room to the left, the room currently occupied with some rather busy orcs who might not take too kindly to their pursuits being interrupted.

Yjarrn crept toward the open doorframe. This is not how this was supposed to go, he thought, as he swallowed and peeked into the room. The situation was mostly how he imagined it would be. He was thankful that at least neither of the two occupants were looking in his direction when he saw them, but what was facing him was not much better. The worst part was that the helmet was not on the table or the dresser or flung onto the floor in a fit of passion. It was still resting firmly on the chief's head.

The thief ducked his head back out of the room. He's wearing it during that? Yjarrn thought. What a douche! Despite his feeling about the chief's eccentricity, it left the thief in a difficult situation. At first, he thought he might just grab the helmet off the chief's head and make a run for it, but then he considered the possibility that the chief might not be nearly as bashful as himself. Without armor to slow him, the chief might easily run him down. He was not getting that helmet off without the chief knowing about it. Nobody was that good. He had heard some stories of thieves who had "the perfect touch" stealing the clothing right off of people. They might have ripped something off, but the people being fleeced certainly knew about it. The idea that someone could undress a person with the mark being unaware was rubbish, pure and utter nonsense. He was going to have to figure out another way.

Looking back on it, Yjarrn could not remember whether it was the irritation of being unable to come up with a plan or having to listen to the incessant squeals coming from the bedroom, but he grabbed one of the heavy steel mugs on the table and hurled it at the chief's head. A hard, metallic clunk and a cessation of the goings on was evidence that he hit his mark. A moment later, the chief emerged from the room, completely naked other than the helm, and seething with rage. In his eyes burned the crazed fury hungry to tear apart anything and everything apart that got in his way. It was that look that threw Yjarrn off his guard just long enough for the chief to get the first strike in, sending the interloper reeling over the table and onto the floor. Yjarrn recovered quickly, rolling to his feet and pulling his hammer from his belt. As the chief effortlessly tossed the table aside, Yjarrn brought the head of the hammer down on the flat crest of the helm. The orc stumbled backward, staggering terribly. He swung wildly at Yjarrn, but the thief easily evaded, grabbing one of the nonsensical black horns and throwing his opponent to the ground.

"That is why you don't put horns on a helmet, moron!" Yjarrn yelled at the chief before stomping on the orc's groin. He had not planned that final assault, but his jaw was still throbbing painfully.

The chief's voice jumped up a couple octaves as he cried out in pain, and that was when Yjarrn noticed that the chief's companion was standing in the doorway, obviously hoping for a different result than what she had witnessed.

"Sorry about that," Yjarrn apologized before departing. His interruption was bad enough, but that final blow brought an absolute end to the activities.

"That is the most absurd helm I have ever seen," Brynjolf said when Yjarrn set it on the table in front of him. "Was he seriously wearing that?"

"Oh, yeah," Yjarrn nodded.

"Good work, lad," Brynjolf said. "I'll have it delivered to the buyer directly. Here's your cut."

Yjarrn was ready for the weight of the gold this time. He braced himself as Brynjolf dropped the purse into his hands. His arms wavered, but he was able to recover. The purse was even heavier this time, and Karliah did her best to stifle a giggle.

"You are making us a lot of coin, Yjarrn," Karliah complimented him. "Keep it up and you will know wealth beyond anything you can imagine."

Yjarrn believed her. He was currently the richest he had ever been in his entire life, and it had only been two days.

"You've earned every bit of it," Brynjolf said. "I'm happy I brought you on board."

"Do you have anything else for me?" Yjarrn asked.

Brynjolf laughed, "No, nothing at the moment. I just sent Cynric out on the last job I had, but if you're aching for another run, maybe Delvin has something you could do."

"Thanks," Yjarrn said.

"Thank you, Yjarrn," Karliah replied catching him for another fleeting moment in her deep purple eyes.

Yjarrn flopped down on his bed. He had not slept well the last two nights, and he figured it might be better to rest up for a while before going out on another job. He spent most of the rest of the day in his bunk, relaxing and reading the first volume from a series called _The Real Barenziah_ , a character about which he had mixed feelings. He went to the training room, just to see what was happening, and finished up his day at the Flagon where he asked Delvin if there was any work to help with.

"Already itching to go, ay?" Delvin asked. "I'm not sure if you got lucky or not, but I have to say I was impressed that you managed to get out of Largashbur. Orcs are a bloodthirsty lot with far too much honor for my taste."

Yjarrn smiled, "I didn't know you had a taste for honor at all, Delvin."

"No, I suppose I don't," Delvin agreed. "Gets in the way, just like a conscience. You don't have one of those, do you?"

Yjarrn took a drink, but he didn't respond.

"Either way," Delvin continued. "I've got nothing for you from the Guild. People have been snatching up jobs quicker than they come in. I do, however, have a bit of personal business you might be able to help me with, a little revenge, if you're up for it."

"What do you want me to do?" Yjarrn asked.

"I was up in the city, listening around, and I heard Madesi saying that someone I am not very fond of recently returned to Riften with a stash of gems," Delvin said. "Not sure what kind or where they're from, but the Argonian only had the coin on hand to buy a few of them. My guess is they are still looking for a buyer for the rest, and I'd like to see them pitched before that happens."

"Any idea where they are?" Yjarrn asked.

"Not for sure," Delvin said. "But probably in Aerin's house over by the main gate."

"That's all you want?" Yjarrn asked. "Just the gems?"

"Well, feel free to grab whatever else you want," Delvin shrugged.

"Alright," Yjarrn said. "I'll have the gems to you by tomorrow."

"See you tomorrow then," he said, then got up and left the Flagon.

Yjarrn stayed at the Flagon a few more hours, emptying a couple of bottles of Blackbriar mead and enjoying the dour ambiance of his new home. It had only been a few days, but he thought he was settling in rather well. Eventually, his eyelids began to droop, and he reluctantly found his way back to bed. The moment he collapsed on the mattress, he was asleep, and he slept hard until early the next morning.

Only the slightest remnant of a hangover remained when Yjarrn walked up the steps of the crypt and out into the Riften graveyard. The sun was just barely peeking over the horizon and had not yet risen over the wall, casting an array of colors across the sky. Pinks and oranges blended smoothly into the pale blue sky, and the crisp morning air breathed life into Yjarrn's senses. Nabbing a few gems from someone's house did not seem like a difficult job, not one he would have to put too much consideration toward, but if his last contract taught him anything, it was that he could not predict how a job would go. Yjarrn walked nonchalantly through the back alleyway of Riften beside the city wall. The guard patrolling the area barely gave him a second look, though he should have. Yjarrn eventually found his way up to Aerin's front door. He knocked and waited. No answer. The lock was a simple contraption, nothing too difficult, and he opened it with relative ease.

The home had three levels, the room on the ground level, which he was in, a basement, and a level above. Yjarrn had done a few break-ins before he joined up with the Thieves' Guild, and his experience told him that he had about a fifty/fifty chance of finding the gems stashed hidden upstairs or stuffed somewhere down in the basement. He decided to try the upstairs first. As he crept through the room, he listened. No one had answered the door, but that did not give him complete certainty that no one was home. A full meal had been placed out on the table, and that concerned him. Most people did not set out food before they left, but some of it was eaten and it was not hot. He noticed a letter on the opposite table, and thinking it might give a bit of insight to the strange scene, he skimmed it. The hastily scrawled note was from someone named Madena asking for help from Mjoll. Mjoll! he thought. That monstrous woman from the marketplace? The one that could just as easily snap my neck as look at me? Why is she getting mail sent here? Does she live here? Did Delvin know about this? A flood of questions surged into his mind, but he did not have time for any of them. He briefly considered bugging out completely, but he did want to get paid for the job. If the gems were as valuable as Delvin made them out to be, this would be his biggest payday yet.

Yjarrn scampered up the stairs as quietly as he could. There was nothing in the first room, but a locked chest sat on the floor in the second. Fumbling a little with his picks, the thief realized that his hands were shaking. This is not what he needed right now. He took a deep breath and then proceeded to pick the lock. It was no more difficult than the one on the door, but it took him twice as long as he attempted to keep his hands steady. Eventually, he heard the click and the lock fell open. Inside the chest was some gold, which he pocketed, a set of nice clothes, and a leather pouch full of cut gemstones. Perfect! This had to be them! He secured them in his jacket, but just as he closed the lid of the chest, the door to the room burst open.

"You!" Mjoll fumed, rage burning in her eyes.

Yjarrn did not get a chance to respond before she swung her ax around, aiming for his head, burying the blade deep in the wooden chest. She did not even bother to pull in out. She grabbed the gibbering intruder and threw him hard against the back wall. Yjarrn slumped to the ground still trying to explain his actions but stopped when Mjoll ripped the ax free of the chest and swung at his head again. Yjarrn's quick reflexes were the only thing that saved him from Mjoll's wrath. He ducked under her swing and dove under the table. He went for the door, but he was almost decapitated again as Mjoll brought the blade of her weapon down directly in front of him. Yjarrn remembered squealing like a frightened little girl out of fear, but almost because the tips of his ring and pinkie fingers, down to the first knuckle, lay severed on the floor.

"You win!" he screamed. "I surrender!"

"I won't win until every one of your heads is on a spike decorating the walls of Riften!" Mjoll howled, kicking the table out of the way.

The legs slammed hard into Yjarrn's side, bruising his ribs, and causing him to unconsciously cry out again, a cry that only grew louder and more pathetic when he saw Mjoll towering over him bringing the ax down directly at his head.

"FU…" Yjarrn screamed, but the last part of the word was drowned out by the thud of Mjoll's ax burying itself deep in the edge of the table that was just barely covering Yjarrn's head. Both of them looked at each other, taking in but not quite believing the situation.

Yjarrn scrambled for the door, this time escaping Mjoll's grasp and fleeing down the stairs, knocking down some guy as he went. He kicked open the front door, but instead of making a run for the sewers, which is what Mjoll would expect, he ran for the gate, slipping out just as Mjoll burst out her front door.

Yjarrn spent the rest of the day hiding out in the woods outside of Riften. As night fell, he heard the howls of wolves, but he did not care. I was too scared to go back into the city. He wrapped up his fingers tightly in a bit of cloth and managed to keep enough pressure on them to stop the bleeding. As the sun rose the next morning, Yjarrn summoned up enough courage to slip back into the city. He crept quietly through the streets, doing his best to remain completely unseen and keeping an eye on the front door of Mjoll's house until it was out of sight. As he passed through the courtyard of the Temple of Mara, he saw a woman and her son begging.

Feeling a sudden pang of pity, he hid in the shadows next to her and pressed a gold piece into her hand, asking, "I have never seen you here before. Why are you out here begging?"

The woman answered, "Maven Blackbriar had my husband executed for smuggling skooma. He had never touched the stuff a day in his life, but she claims he had enough to kill a mammoth. I don't know why she would do that. He loved his job, and he was loyal to the guard."

Yjarrn gulped and asked with a trembling voice, "What was his name?"

"Hrolgir," she answered.

A tear began to form at the corner of his eye. He took all the gold he had in his pockets and gave it to the woman. She tried to thank him, but he would not let her, only whispering a quick, "I'm sorry," as he left.

Down in the Ragged Flagon, Delvin Mallory sat waiting for Yjarrn to return. On the table in front of him, next to a bottle of mead, sat a purse filled with gold pieces, payment for the job. He looked up when the young thief entered through the back of the tavern. "Glad to see you back," the old thief said. "I trust everything went well?"

Yjarrn did not sit down. He grabbed the edges of the table with both hands, stared directly into Delvin's eyes and asked, "Did you know Mjoll the Lioness lived in that house with Aerin?"

"Of course, I did," Delvin answered. "She was the mark."

"She gave me this!" he yelled, shoving his mangled and bloody hand in the old thief's face. "I would never have taken that job if I'd known she was the mark!"

"I guessed that," Delvin said. "Which is why I didn't tell you, but I needed the job done."

"And you didn't want to risk doing it yourself," Yjarrn said.

"Now listen here, whelp!" Delvin snapped. "I've been burgling since before your mother weened you. I won't be taking lip from you. You're good, but you're at the bottom of the food chain. You understand? If you take a job, you had better do it and not come crying to us when it doesn't go like you expect it to!"

The Flagon had gone silent. Yjarrn looked around. Every other patron in the tavern was now staring at them, curious at how the rest of the interaction would play out. The blonde Imperial, who was now as sober as he was, slowly shook her head and tapped the pommel of her dagger.

"Fine," Yjarrn spat, snatching the purse. "Here are the gems." He threw the small, leather pouch across the table at Delvin. Several of the beautifully cut gems broke free of the bag and fell on the table and floor below. The thief who had warned him jumped up, blade out, but Delvin raised his hand to call her off.

"Don't worry about it, Vex," he said. "Our new recruit is just having a little temper tantrum, not happy about losing his fingers. He'll be fine in a few days once he gets it through his head that this is a job that involves a bit of risk."

Vex sheathed her dagger and sat back down, but she did not take her eyes off of Yjarrn for a moment. Neither did Delvin or anyone else in the tavern.

"Why don't you pull up a chair, have a drink?" Delvin suggested. "You'll feel better about all of this."

Yjarrn was not in the mood for a drink. He shook his head and walked back out of the Ragged Flagon to the Cistern. There he flopped down on his bed and dropped his payment into his stash. There was a lot of gold in there now, enough to do anything. He looked up at the statue of Nocturnal, the patron of thieves, standing over near the other side of the Cistern. The place was not feeling as much like a home as it had the day before, and the members of the Guild were feeling far more like puppeteers than family. Yjarrn was not quite sure what he should do, but he was not happy with how things had turned out.


	2. Part 2: Running in Armor

**The Weaving of Yjarrn**

 **Part 2:** _Running in Armor_

Did it have to be so loud? Yjarrn thought to himself as the crypt, stone grinding against stone, opened up under the graveyard. This was the first time he was setting foot outside the underground den of thieves since he had returned from the Mjoll job about three days earlier. After blowing up at Mallory, he mostly kept to himself. The rest of the Guild members had given him his space, but that did not last forever. Brynjolf had tried giving him a job yesterday, but Yjarrn turned it down. Whispers began to circulate in the Cistern, and Yjarrn began feeling the eyes of his comrades on him, watching. They were probably saying he lost his nerve, scared to lose any more fingers. To some extent, that was true. He had nightmares about the massive Nord woman cornering him and hacking him to pieces with her ax. The first night, he woke with a fright, nearly crying out. It had been terrifying, but it was not as painful as remembering the look on the face of Hrolgir's wife and child, begging on the streets. Tonight, at least, he was not planning on reliving his time with Mjoll because he did not plan on going to sleep at all. Yjarrn was not sure exactly where he was going or what he was going to do, but he knew one thing for certain, he needed to leave the Thieves' Guild. Maybe then he would not be the cause of any more misery.

Having no real direction or place to go, Yjarrn headed northwest, back toward Ivarstead. Maybe, if he was lucky, he might be able to woo Lynly Star-Sung with his wealth. Women are impressed by wealth, right? He began to think of how they might settle down. He did not much like the idea of working a farm, but he liked taverns. Maybe he could buy the tavern from Wilhelm. The more he thought about it, the more he realized he did not know the first thing about running a tavern and striking a deal for mead delivery from the Blackbriar Meadery would be tricky at best after walking out on the Guild. Yjarrn was not naïve enough to think that the Guild could not find out where he was if they wanted to but handing them the opportunity to so easily make his life difficult would be stupid. Settling down anywhere in the Rift would be asking for trouble, but would Lynly be willing to leave Ivarstead for him? He had no idea. Yjarrn was beginning to get frustrated at his lack of prospects and irritated at the time imposed on him by traveling to mull over all the opportunities he did not have.

Yjarrn had stuck to the main road going east out of Riften along the southern shore of Lake Honrich. It was a lovely stretch of road if you ignore the constant danger posed by wolves and bears. He was crossing a stone bridge over a stream that had all but dried up when his temper finally got the better of him and he yelled out, "This stinks! Why is this my life?!" He nearly kicked the side of the bridge, but held himself back at the last moment, leaning on it instead, angry tears brimming in his eyes.

"I don't know this," a rather unscrupulous-sounding voice replied.

Yjarrn jumped and spun around to see who had answered him.

On the bridge in front of him stood a Khajiit with mottled fur-clad in scaled armor. In the dim moonlit glow, the cat man seemed to blend in with his surroundings, and Yjarrn was not sure how well he would have seen him were it not for the glint off the steel of his armor.

"What do you want?" Yjarrn asked.

"Well now," the Khajiit began. "That is the question at hand, is it not?" The Khajiit lifted a furry hand and stretched out his fingers, showing off a set of razor-sharp claws. "There is a lot that J'darzi wants. Moon sugar is one."

"I don't have any moon sugar or skooma," Yjarrn said.

"Who asked for skooma!" J'darzi hissed. "Do you see a Khajiit and always think he is an addict?"

"N-no!" Yjarrn stuttered. "I…"

"J'darzi is not an addict!" the Khajiit yelled. His hands were low and his fingers curls, making his claws seem that much more menacing.

Yjarrn's hand drifted slowly toward the hammer on his belt.

"Do not do that," J'darzi warned, pointing at him. "You do not want to get ugly with J'darzi. J'darzi will mess you up."

Yjarrn hand dropped back to his side. "Fine," he said. "But since I do not have any moon sugar, I will be on my way."

"J'darzi thinks you have gold, though," the Khajiit purred, showing his fangs in the khajiit's hideous excuse for a smile. "J'darzi likes gold, and gold can buy moon sugar and skooma!"

"I thought you weren't an addict," Yjarrn said.

The smile instantly faded from J'darzi's face, replaced with a look of sheer rage. The cat man hissed and spat, almost as if he was having a fit, trying to speak and yet so full of wrath and indignation that the words could not even escape his lips in a recognizable fashion. The Khajiit leaped at Yjarrn, pushing him backward and pinning him to the stone and bending him backward over the side of the bridge. Only instinct born in the moment of intense fear caused Yjarrn to grasp the incoming by the wrists, stopping the claws only inches from his throat. He cried out in fear, trying with everything he had to push his attacker off, but J'darzi was stronger than he was and held him fast. As the Khajiit realized he had the upper hand, the wicked smile returned to his face. He bit at Yjarrn's face, toying with his victim as he wailed in panicked terror.

The Khajiit said, "J'darzi did not think you would die squealing like a pig, Nord, but he does not mind if it makes you feel better."

"Halt!" the loud, booming voice called from the end of the bridge. "Release him!"

J'darzi hissed and turned away from Yjarrn to the new threat. "What is this?" he asked.

"By order of the Emperor, you will release that man and submit yourself to arrest, Khajiit!" the legionnaire commanded.

Now that J'darzi was not pressing down on him, Yjarrn got a look at what was happening. On both sides of the bridge, stood legionnaires in full armor with large, diamond-shaped shields and their distinct imperial swords drawn. He could see the that Khajiit was panicking, looking desperately from side to side for a way of escape.

"Come quietly, Khajiit!" the officer ordered.

J'darzi glanced to the side of the bridge. Yjarrn could see in his eyes that the Khajiit was ready to jump. Unfortunately for J'darzi, the officer could see it, too, and with a single word an arrow flew from the bow of the legionnaire beside him. It thudded in the flesh of J'darzi's upper thigh, dropping the Khajiit to the stone, but he had not yet given up the fight. Even as the officer approached, the cat man lurched toward the edge of the bridge. He tried to pull himself over the side, but the legion officer kicked him hard in the ribs. J'darzi fell backward, but despite the arrow protruding from his leg, the Khajiit came back slashing at the officer with claw and fang. The legionnaire seemed unaffected by the feline's barrage of attacks and simply slammed the boss of his shield into the cat man's face. Teeth cracked, and blood splattered across the shield as J'darzi fell backward. The Khajiit hissed, but the hiss ended in a sickening gurgle as the legionnaire shoved his sword through J'darzi's chest.

"Such is the penalty for thieving and attempting to circumvent the Emperor's justice," the officer said, pulling his sword from the corpse.

Yjarrn sat wide-eyed against the opposite side of the bridge where he had fallen when J'darzi released him. The officer casually cleaned the blood from his blade with the Khajiit's tail and called to a few of his men to dispose of the carcass. Yjarrn's head was still spinning when the officer offered his hand.

"My name is Aquila Valerius, Captain in the Emperor's Imperial Legion," the officer said as he helped Yjarrn to his feet.

"Yjarrn," he replied, watching two of the legionnaires carry off the J'darzi's body.

Aquila followed Yjarrn's gaze. "Your homeland is a dangerous place, as you have just experienced, especially in the middle of the night. What is it you are doing out here?"

Yjarrn balked, his words sticking in his throat. He swallowed hard. Considering how clearing Aquila had made his feelings known about thievery, Yjarrn felt it was in his best interests not to tell the officer about his previous line of work. He felt himself starting to sweat. Tell the man anything, he told himself. Anything will do, just not that you were a professional thief. Now he is looking at you funny. Say words! Any words! Now!

"I-I'm going to join the Legion!" Yjarrn proclaimed, a bit more loudly than he had intended. He groaned inwardly the moment the words escaped his lips.

"Really?" Aquila asked.

Now that he had spoken, Yjarrn could think of half a dozen better lies to have told than the one he did. He was going to visit a sick family member, or a friend needed his help with a mining venture. Shoot, even the truth that he was on his way home to Ivarstead was far better than telling a legion officer he wanted to join up. There was no going back now, though. Anything else would sound suspicious, and Aquila Valerius seemed the kind of man who could see through a shaky fib.

"Of course!" Yjarrn said. "The Empire is awesome. Ulfric is a loser. Skyrim is for everybody… and so forth. Who wouldn't want to join the Legion?"

"As you say," Captain Valerius replied. "The Legion might be just the thing for you, toughen you up some, and today you are fortunate. This detachment is on its way to Solitude for redeployment to the front. My men and I are off to give Ulfric a taste of Imperial steel!" Aquila yelled the last statement loud enough for the other legionnaires to hear, and they let a shout in reply.

"Alright then!" Yjarrn said, a tear welling up in his eye. He raised his fist in mock solidarity. "Give him one for me, too!"

"We would be happy to escort you to Solitude," Aquila continued. "Unless there is some reason you would not want to accompany us?" The hardened officer looked Yjarrn square in the eye, as if begging him to flounder an excuse.

"N-no no, of course not!" Yjarrn stammered. "That is what I was hoping you would ask. I definitely want to go to Solitude with y'all and join up and take oaths and… that. Yes, thank you."

"Good, we set out again at first light," Aquila said.

Yjarrn caught the faintest hint of a smile on the officer's face, and he suddenly felt a sinking feeling in his stomach, the kinda small, helpless insect might feel once it realized it was caught in the spider's web.

Every time Yjarrn woke during the rest of the night, he was greeted by the stern look of the legionnaires on watch. They were supposed to be watching for bandits or wild animals, but Yjarrn had the distinct impression they were watching him more than anything else. He groaned and rolled back over. Hiding his face in the extra legion issued blankets Aquila had given him, Yjarrn tried to figure out what to do next. He could make a run for it. Yjarrn lifted his head just high enough to get a look at the watchmen. Their bows were strung. He muttered a few choice words and let his head fall back onto his arm. Running would get him nothing but an arrow in the back and slipping away unseen was obviously not going to happen. Yjarrn wished he knew magic, just one spell that could get him out of this. Of course, setting Aquila's tent on fire would get him skewered by an arrow or a blade just as quickly as running away, but he was told once that some mages could turn themselves invisible. Now that would be a helpful trick. He imagined the looks on the soldiers' faces when he vanished right in front of them. They would probably nock arrows and shoot him in the face anyway. Yjarrn sighed and rolled over onto his back. There might have been a way to escape, but he consigned himself to the fact that he was not smart enough to come up with it. A gentle breeze rustled the golden leaves up above, and beyond the stars shone brightly in the night sky. Yjarrn's mind began to wander. He thought of Lynly and Ivarstead and how close he was to getting back before that blasted Khajiit tried to rob him, how painfully close. He laughed to himself. It was probably just a dream anyway.

Yjarrn was shaken awake early, far earlier than he was used to getting up, by one of the legionnaires. "Get yourself vertical and let's go!" the man shouted. "We have some miles to cover!"

Yjarrn's head was ringing. He heard a few of the legionnaires chuckling as he rolled off his blankets and staggered to his feet. Was it really necessary to yell at sleeping people? On his feet, he could see the soldiers were all nearly ready to march out of camp. All of them had their gear packed up and their armor on, and Yjarrn had not heard a thing. How deeply was he sleeping? Maybe he did need to be yelled at.

The journey to Solitude was the first time Yjarrn had ever been outside of the Rift. The woodlands of southeastern Skyrim had always been his home, and it was very strange for him to see the golden trees disappear, replaced by the vast open plains surrounding Whiterun. Eventually, those too transformed into the chilly marshlands of Hjaalmarch before Yjarrn saw Haafingar's rocky crags and the famous natural rock bridge upon which Solitude, Skyrim's capital, rested. The city was far more impressive than Yjarrn had imagined. Before leaving the Rift, the biggest city he had ever seen was Riften and then Whiterun. Now Solitude was the biggest by far with towering walls of dark grey stone and structures so massive Yjarrn wondered just how much the city's rocky arch could hold.

The citizens of Solitude stepped aside as Aquila Valerius and his men marched through the streets. Some smiled while others did their best to ignore the soldiers. One little boy waved as the legionnaires passed, and Yjarrn watched as one of the soldiers stepped out of formation to stop and say hello to the boy and his father. It was touching for the moment and a half or so that Yjarrn was able to see the interaction before he was hustled away.

Yjarrn did not get to see as much of the city as he had hoped for. A legionnaire marched on each side of him, and every time he lagged behind the steady march of the soldiers by as much as half a pace, he was dragged immediately back into line. As Yjarrn did not know how to march and was completely unaccustomed to moving in formation, this happened a lot. By the time they were making the ascent to Castle Dour, his specially assigned entourage were mostly taking him up the ramps by the arms. it would have been embarrassing if Yjarrn was not wholly consumed with what was going to happen to him once he was inside the castle.

Captain Valerius called a halt under the archway and dismissed his men to the yard, all except the two who stood beside Yjarrn. After a brief talk with the legionnaires guarding the door, Valerius motioned to them, and they helped Yjarrn through the door behind the captain. The interior of the castle was dark. Braziers and candles lit the room, but the tall dark grey stone of the walls gave the entire place an ominous feel. Yjarrn could hear talking in the room ahead, a man and a woman, but it was difficult to make out what they were saying. The legionnaires took Yjarrn to the side where they waited as their captain disappeared into the next room.

Yjarrn sat down on a short bench set against the wall. His feet were aching from the days of long travel, and he was happy to take the weight off them. He looked around the room. Heavy legion banners hung from every bit of exposed wall, surrounding him. He quickly forgot about the momentary relief he felt sitting down as the dragon emblems began to feel like a cage, the heavy fabric weighing down on his mind. He had the sudden impulse to jump up and run, and he might have but for the legionnaires set to guard him.

"You just sit right there until the captain gets back," one of them said.

Yjarrn gulped and nodded.

A short time later, Aquila Valerius reemerged from the room from where Yjarrn had heard the voices and gave a quick motion to his legionnaires. Without a word, they hoisted Yjarrn up by his arms and roughly nudged him toward the next room.

This was it, Yjarrn thought. This is where I get the privilege of signing my life away.

Inside the room, an older man, who was dressed in light but splendidly etched armor which Yjarrn could see was nothing but ceremonial, stood leaning on one side of a large wooden table looking over what appeared to be a map of the entire province. Small flags of red and blue dotted the map, detailing the positions of the opposing armies. Most of the flags were red, but a few blue flags still stood on the eastern end of the map. On the other side of the table, a Nord woman in heavy legion plate armor was briefing him about some kind of military maneuver Yjarrn did not understand, but she seemed very sure it would help knock down the few remaining blue flags.

The man sighed, "It's a good plan, Legate. The problem is that if Ulfric sees it coming we could expose the entire left flank."

"But if he doesn't," the legate replied. "It would break him. No matter how deluded his Stormcloaks are or how much they might believe in him, they cannot stand up to that many legionnaires in heavy armor, in close quarters. Once the fort is ours, Windhelm is sure to follow."

"And Winterhold?" he asked.

"Once Windhelm is ours, General," she replied. "We will have no need to worry about Winterhold. We just need to make sure we trap Ulfric. Jarl Korir will surrender the moment he knows we have him, and this war will be over."

"Very well, Legate," the general said. "Give the orders."

"Yes sir, General Tullius!" the legate replied as she saluted and left the room.

Once she left, General Tullius looked up from the map. He addressed the captain, though he did not look at him. "It is a very good plan," he said. "I hope it works. The sooner this rebellion is put down and we have Ulfric's head decorating a spike on the wall of the Imperial City, the sooner we can move on to the real enemy."

"Yes, sir!" Captain Valerius responded.

At this, the general looked over at him. "Is this him?" he asked, making a brief motion with his head toward Yjarrn.

"Yes, sir!" the captain said again. "Ready and eager to take up arms against the usurper."

General Tullius looked at Yjarrn for the first time. "He's rather scrawny for Nord," Tullis observed.

Yjarrn could not care less about the general's observations. He just wanted to get out of there in any way that did not lead to him being forced into service for the rest of his life. He knew he had to take an oath in order to join, and his mind raced to find a way to refuse it politely.

The general continued, "Well, I am glad you're so eager to enlist, what was your name?"

"Yjarrn, General," Yjarrn replied politely.

"Yjarrn," Tullius said, his eyebrow rising. "Interesting name. Well, Yjarrn, I am glad you are so eager to join because after walking into that sensitive conversation, you're going to need to swear in or I'm going to have to put you in the dungeon for the rest of this blasted war."

Yjarrn's face fell. If it were possible, his jaw would be on the floor. He looked over at Aquila Valerius, who was doing his best not to smile in the general's presence. The man had got him again. Twice in nearly as many days, and there was nothing Yjarrn could do about it.

"Are you ready to take the oath?" Tullius asked.

Yjarrn felt sick. His stomach lurched, and his eyes crossed, but dry-mouthed and without recourse, he nodded.

"Well then," General Tullius continued. "Repeat after me…"

Yjarrn did not hear much of the oath, but he felt his mouth repeating the words as the general spoke them. His stomach in knots, Yjarrn lost all sense of the passage of time. What was he doing? He was joining the Imperial war machine. It was not as if he disagreed with what the Legion stood for. It was just that he didn't want to be the one having to make the stand. They were fighting to preserve the province, for those who could not fight for themselves. Like him! General Tullius even said it! He was a scrawny little Nord! he was going to be cut in half by the first brainless, bear flag waving barbarian who found him! His oath was ushering in his own death!

"Long live the Empire!"

Yjarrn heard those words coming from his lips as if someone else had spoken them. Had he just yelled that out? Was the oath complete?

"Welcome to the Imperial Legion, soldier," General Tullius congratulated him.

What the s'wit?! Yjarrn thought, his mind reeling at the word soldier being used to address him.

"Congratulations, Yjarrn," Captain Valerius said. "You're going to make a fine legionnaire."

Yjarrn stood there, stunned. He could feel a tear brimming in his eye as he tried to respond, but no words managed to escape his lips. He heard the sound of legion armor as Legate Rikke came back into the room.

"Legate Rikke, get our new recruit here situated," Tullius ordered.

General Tullius turned back to the map and began making the appropriate changes to his map in accordance with the orders he had just handed down, and the imposing form of Legate Rikke appeared in front of Yjarrn. She was a strong Nord woman, and he could not help but make the comparison between her and Mjoll the Lioness. The difference was that while Mjoll was a more than formidable warrior who had adventured all over Skyrim, Legate Rikke was a professional soldier, a legionnaire, who may very well have traveled all over the continent fighting the Empire's wars, including the Great War with the Aldmeri Dominion. She wore heavy, legion armor, and strapped to her hip was the traditional Imperial sword. She stood at least half a head taller than Yjarrn, and as she looked him over with her piercing brown eyes, he got the feeling of being pieced apart, every secret laid bare before her.

"Very well," she said finally. "I think we could use you. The front is in need of more scouts to keep an eye on Stormcloak troop movements. You could probably handle that, and if not…" Rikke shrugged and left the statement hanging.

Yjarrn swallowed uncomfortably.

"Well?!" Rikke yelled, her face suddenly far too close to his for comfort. "Can you handle that?!"

"Y-yes!" Yjarrn responded awkwardly.

She scowled at him, her right eye squinting.

Realizing the blunder he had made, Yjarrn quickly added, "Sir!" Her scowl deepened, and Yjarrn's eyes widened. "Ma'am! Yes, Ma'am!"

The murderous look in the legate's eyes abated. "Get out of here," she said. "You are assigned to Captain Valerius until you get to the front and then he can do what he wants with you, but before that, get over to the smithy and tell Bierand to set you up with some proper legion armor. Then you can throw that garbage leather you're wearing in the trash."

Yjarrn nodded and scampered out of Castle Dour as fast as his legs allowed. He left the yard, passing under the archway and to the left to where he had seen the forge on his way in. The only problem was that there was no smith. Yjarrn knocked on the nearest door, but there was no answer. Yjarrn walked over to the next door where a Redguard fletcher named Jawanan told him Bierand might be down visiting his wife, Sayma at Bits and Pieces. Unfortunately for Yjarrn, when he opened the door to Sayma's shop, the couple was right in the middle of an argument that had something to do with their son. Trying not to be rude, Yjarrn cleared his throat loudly. Bierand stopped mid-word, and the two of them looked with disdain at the small Nord who had interrupted their disagreement.

"Can I help you?" Sayma asked.

"Actually," Yjarrn said. "I'm here for him." He pointed apologetically at Bierand.

Sayma muttered something under her breath that Yjarrn could not hear. He figured he was better off not hearing it. She was completely out of sorts, obviously furious over whatever the couple had been arguing about, and he was willing to bet whatever the words were, they were aimed at him and they were not flattering.

"New recruit?" Bierand asked.

Yjarrn nodded.

"Alright," he said. "Meet me back at the forge in an hour, and I'll have your gear. I need to fix this first. I'm sure you understand."

Yjarrn nodded, more out of happiness at the smith's assumption that he had had enough interaction with women to experience the problems that come along with relationships than of any kind of mutual sympathy. His long-running infatuation with Lynly Star-Sung was only that, and he was not even sure she was aware of his feelings.

As the couple continued their quarrel, Yjarrn left the shop, and with nothing better to do for the next hour, started exploring the city. It was nearly noon. Merchants were selling fresh fish and fruit. Yjarrn was about to walk up to the vendor when he felt a little finger poking his arm.

"Hey mister, do you want to play tag?" the boy asked.

Yjarrn had seen kids pull this kind of con before. He had actually been a part of it several times when he was a boy, and he was not about to be taken for a fool. "You know what?" he asked. "I do feel like playing a bit of tag. How about you take a small head start, and I'll see if I can catch you." As Yjarrn said the last few words, he pulled his war hammer from the ring on his belt and hefted it a bit. The boy's eyes widened, and he and his friends scampered off back the way they had come. "I'm coming!" Yjarrn called, eliciting a couple of screams from the fleeing children.

Yjarrn returned his hammer to his belt, chuckling and pleased with his joke. Hopefully, he might have turned some minds away from thieving, but if not, he had tried. After passing under a large, stone archway, Yjarrn saw a strange building that piqued his interest. It was stone, like every other structure in the city, and it was not big. In fact, it grabbed his attention because it looked small, old, and strangely out in the middle of everything. Most buildings were set to the side of the main thoroughfare through the city that led from the gates to the Blue Palace, but this building sat directly in its path, forcing the path and those who followed it to either side. The stonework was ancient. The structure itself had probably stood there for generations, possibly predating the stones laid down for the road and perhaps even the city itself. What kind of building forces a city to be built around it? Yjarrn wondered. He had to see what was inside, just a peak, to satisfy his curiosity.

The first entrance Yjarrn saw was walled up with stone, and an odd rune was carved at the top of the once was doorframe. The former thief's curiosity blazed, and he snuck around the side to check the one door which still existed. It was unlocked and fell open as Yjarrn turned the handle. His heartbeat quickened, and he felt the rush that he had always felt when breaking into a place he was not allowed to be. He missed that feeling, that flood of adrenaline through his body. Yjarrn licked his lips in anticipation and slipped inside.

The interior of the building was a complete surprise. Yjarrn had expected to see a counter or stacks of books, anything but what initially looked to be a simple dwelling. This, however, was not just some humble home. The décor was different. There were too many bones. A troll's skull greeted any guests as they walked through the door, and a large mammoth skull overlooked the small kitchen that stunk of garlic. These, however, did not cause him the same concern as the four human skulls displayed on the shelves around the room. What had he gotten himself into now? His first instinct was to leave. No thief wants to find himself breaking into a place in which the occupant is a trained fighter or a soldier or in this case perhaps a murderous psychopath. Yjarrn turned back toward the door, but as he did, he heard a hand grab the handle outside.

No! he thought. Not again! What was wrong with him? He was not even trying to rob the place! Why did he have to look? Yjarrn made a quick break for the back room as an old man in robes walked into the house. Yjarrn was kicking himself. Why did he have to break into the house of a blasted mage and one harboring a fascination with the dead at that? Suddenly, a terrifying thought shot like lightning through his mind. He is a necromancer! Yjarrn, you fool! You broke into the home of a bloody necromancer living in secret in the middle of the city! You have to report this! You have to be quiet! You have to get out of here before he murders you and turns you into a shambling corpse to do his laundry or his cooking or whatever necromancers do with corpses when they aren't sending them out to slaughter and terrorize!

Yjarrn took a brief glance back around the corner. The old man was taking down some garlic to put in his cooking put, probably because he did not have a zombie to do it for him, crazy old bastard! Yjarrn turned away. He did not remember seeing a balcony from the outside, so he decided to go down the stairs on the off chance the basement had some kind of exit. If not, he would have to hide out until the necromancer moved away from the door.

Old wooden steps are something a thief learns to deal with early. Usually, they do not matter because a thief tries to break in when no one is home. However, situations arise, and one has to know how to remain unheard as well as unseen. Yjarrn placed his feet near the edges of the steps, as close to the strong baseboard as possible to limit the amount of creaking. These steps, however, must have been ancient because they let out moans like a cow giving birth. Yjarrn froze after the first step howled like it had been stabbed, praying for the first time in a long time that the scary old man was deaf. He was not. When the old man called out, Yjarrn swung from the stairs down to the lower steps and bolted toward the back of the door at the back of the basement. In his haste to escape, he did not even notice the lit, stone braziers, the webs, or the skull decorating the vaulted underground passageway leading up to a dark and foreboding door. He ran and slammed the door behind him.

Several choice words escaped Yjarrn's lips when he saw where he was, caught between a necromancer and a tomb. Ever since he was a little boy, he had heard stories of the old tombs of Skyrim where the long dead still walked. He swallowed hard. This must be why the necromancer had taken up residence there! He had a whole labyrinth of catacombs full of bodies to raise! The city was in danger! He needed to get out of here and warn someone before it was too late. He grabbed a table set up along the side and wedged it in front of the door. If the necromancer did come after him, perhaps that would slow him down. The Yjarrn turned back to the corridor. He was deeply hoping that this set of catacombs had two entrances because the last thing he wanted to do was try to get passed that old man to escape, but he was also scared of what could be down here with a necromancer living up above.

Cursing his poor decision making, Yjarrn hesitantly moved down the dusty, web-infested hallway. The underground tomb was far more illuminated than Yjarrn expected it to be. Stone braziers lit the corridors as far as he could see, which Yjarrn found a bit odd. It was not like the long-deceased inhabitants, who he desperately hoped still lay, as they should, on stone shelves carved into the walls, were in need of any light. A slight breeze swirled around his feet shifting small particles of dust across the ancient stones. Yjarrn breathed out slowly, suppressing a cry. Solitude's catacombs seemed far more lively than they should.

Yjarrn had not made it to the end of the entryway before he started hearing something coming from the chamber ahead. He could barely hear it, a strange creaking sound that he could not quite place. He moved forward as quietly as possible to get a better listen. Yjarrn told himself that the sound had to be where the wind had found its way into the catacombs, that it was nothing, and other silly lies like that. He swallowed hard as the creaking got a tiny bit louder as he moved closer, and now he could hear it moving around, swaying back and forth, and then he heard the unmistakable sound of a footstep. It was louder than most, but it could be nothing else. The first step was followed by more, and a funny sound escaped Yjarrn's lips as he pressed himself up against the wall. Someone was down here with him or something! he thought. What was he going to do?

Easy, Yjarrn, he old himself. Get a grip. Get a handle on the situation. Whatever it is, you can handle it. He realized he was lying to himself again and rolled his eyes. Quietly, Yjarrn peaked around the corner only to confirm his worse fear. Standing only a few yards away was the full skeleton of what once was either a human or an elf, Yjarrn could not be sure. He only knew that it was most likely not an orc and that there was no way it could not be a Khajiit or an Argonian. Any fool knew a skeleton from the body of one of those races would look very distinct from men and mer. Yjarrn was stuck, frozen in fear, unwilling to move and risk ire of the smoldering eyes glowing deep within the risen skull. This was not happening! his mind screamed. How was he going to get out of here? Fight? How could he fight the dead, and if he turned back, the necromancer would magic him to death!

As Yjarrn pondered his impossible situation, he realized that the same ominous creaking sound was right behind him. He turned quickly and found himself staring directly into those fiery orbs only inches from his face. Instinctually, Yjarrn opened his mouth in a shriek of sheer panic and terror, but no sound escaped his gaping mouth. He tried to move away from the skeleton, but the wall prevented him from going anywhere. He felt his bowels loosen, and at that point, it worked to his advantage that he had not had any water in a long time. He stayed there, frozen in shock until the skeleton slammed its hand into the side of Yjarrn's head.

"Ouch!" Yjarrn yelled, more out of fear than out of pain. The blow hurt, but it really did not do any damage. More than anything else, it knocked some sense into him, and he punched the undead thing right in the skull. His attack did nothing, or at least it did not seem to affect the skeleton in any way. It stood over him for a moment, rather awkwardly, and then swung at him again. This time, however, Yjarrn ducked under the attack and kicked its boney legs out from under it. The skeleton fell to the ground, and Yjarrn scrambled to his feet. He turned to run, but the other skeleton was now shambling toward him. Yjarrn ripped the hammer from the steel ring on his belt and swung it hard at the incoming abomination.

Old bones shattered under the weapon's impact and fell to the floor. Yjarrn turned and swung again. The glowing orbs faded as the skulls rolled across the stones, and where the risen undead once stood, now lay nothing but a pile of dusty bones. A wave of relief swept through Yjarrn's spirit as he stood victorious over the dead. He moved further into the catacombs not even bothering to remain quiet. Another skeleton attacked him, but he put it down as easily as the first two. He had never felt so powerful, so indestructible as the undead fell before him. It was strange, he thought as he reached the door at the other end of the tomb. Necromancers take a lot of trouble to raise these things. Shouldn't they be a bit tougher? He shrugged. They were only bitter old bones, after all, not much to stand against a hammer when you think about it.

Yjarrn rushed out of the catacombs and directly up the ramps to the yard outside Castle Dour where he saw Captain Valerius speaking to another captain.

"Captain Valerius!" Yjarrn yelled. "I have something to report!"

Aquila looked at him strangely but then nodded for Yjarrn to tell him. Yjarrn recounted everything that had happened since leaving Castle Dour, but he specifically described the horrid old necromancer who had trapped him in the catacombs underneath the city. As he described the incident, he realized the other captain was smirking and then gave up all pretense in a deep, hard belly laugh.

"What is it, Captain Aldis?" Aquila asked.

"That's not a necromancer!" Captain Aldis laughed. "That's just old Styrr! He manages the Hall of the Dead, which I am guessing by your smell is where you ended up."

The two men looked at Yjarrn and laughed as the new recruit stood before them, his face turning a deep shade of crimson.

"Don't worry about it, Yjarrn," Captain Valerius said. "It would have put me off a bit, too."

Yjarrn blushed even further, but he refused to let it go. In order to prove he had a reason to report what he did, he asked, "Then why was I forced to kill three walking skeletons?"

This brought the laughing to an immediate halt.

"You killed three skeletons?" Captain Aldis asked.

"Well," Yjarrn said. "Killing might not be the right word. I'm pretty sure they were very dead before I got there, but they were walking around and attacked me."

Captain Aldis grabbed the nearest guard and told him to report what had happened directly to Falk Firebeard and secure the Blue Palace. "Captain Valerius," Aldis continued. "Report this to the general. I am going to take my men into the Hall of the Dead and destroy anything that might still be walking around down there."

"Understood," Valerius replied. "Good luck, Captain." Valerius turned to Yjarrn. "Well done, scout. It seems you have proved yourself of value, which is honestly more than I ever thought I would be saying when I found you." Captain Valerius made his way quickly across the yard, calling to his men to secure the area and Castle Dour before disappearing inside.

This was the first time in his life Yjarrn had done something others might label heroic, though they did not see his first reactions to the undead. He stood there, in the middle of the yard, not quite sure what to do with himself, but with a swelling sense of pride that he had done something worth doing, even if it had been completely by accident. Maybe, Yjarrn began to think, the Legion was not so bad a place to be after all, before realizing he had completely forgotten about getting his armor from Bierand.

Yjarrn scampered out of the yard and over to the smithy to see Bierand getting ready to stoke the fires. "Sorry," Yjarrn said. "I got held up by a thing."

"No worries," Bierand said. "There is always something to get done at the forge. Now, I have just one question for you. Light or heavy?"

"What do you mean?" Yjarrn asked.

"Amor?" the smith replied.

"I get a choice?" Yjarrn asked.

"Of course," Bierand laughed.

Yjarrn thought for a moment. As comfortable and stylish as it might be, the Thieves' Guild armor couldn't stop fork tines, and if Bierand was thinking of giving him something like that, he might as well keep the leather with the enchantments. If he got to choose, he wanted something with some sturdiness to it. "What do you suggest?" he asked the smith.

"Well," Bierand said. "Different armor for different jobs. What are you going to be doing for the Legion?"

"Legate Rikke told me I'd be assigned to the scouts," Yjarrn replied.

"The light armor I have should work well for scouting detail," Bierand said, grabbing the chest piece from off the table and handing it to Yjarrn.

Once again, Yjarrn had been handed a piece of leather and told that it was armor. It was even thinner than what he was wearing! He could not wear this in the field, he would be better off layering up with a few thick linen shirts. At least that way, he would be warm before he died. "Umm," Yjarrn started, trying to think of a tactful way of telling a smith that his armor was not worth wearing. "Do you have anything with steel?"

Bierand pointed to the heavy, steel plate cuirass sitting on his workbench. "I have one I am just finishing up," he said. "It will stop most any weapon pretty well, but I think it would be far too jangly to go off scouting in. Plus, you'd look ridiculous trying to sneak around in it. Even if the Stormcloaks were deaf, they'd see you coming a mile away. I guess you could give it a try, though, if you want."

"Not particularly," Yjarrn said.

"Then take the light armor," Bierand suggested. "It still works, kinda."

"Kinda?" Yjarrn asked. "You know I am still hoping to live through this, right?"

"Oh, well," Bierand backpedaled. "The leather is pretty strong. Should hold up well enough."

"Did it hold up well enough for the animal when it was shot?" Yjarrn asked. "Because I'm going to be facing the same bows firing arrows at me."

Bierand stared at Yjarrn. After an awkward moment, he slowly offered the light option again.

"I have an idea," Yjarrn said, holding up the leather cuirass. He had been thinking about this for a while, ever since his argument with Tonilia. "What if you put some mail or steel plates in the leather armor, so it would hold up better in a fight?"

"Hmm," Bierand said. "Not a bad idea. Give me a few hours, and I'll see what I can come up with."

Yjarrn decided to wait at the smithy. He was interested to see what Bierand would do, and he figured it was better to satisfy his curiosity at the forge than letting it run a bit off course again. Bierand started by putting some pockets on the inside of the vest, around the gut, and slipped some thin steel plates into place before sewing them up tight. He also added some spare mail around the shoulders and some steel pieces to the belt and the baltea that hung around the upper legs. In the end, Yjarrn was very happy with it, and Bierand hand decided to implement the changes to give future legionnaires more options.

"It certainly isn't as light," Bierand said as he handed it over to Yjarrn. "But it is going to give you a lot more protection if you find yourself in a scrap."

Yjarrn ducked inside the shop and quickly put on his new armor. He especially felt good about having a steel helmet on his head rather than a thin, leather hood. He thanked Bierand for his work, and as a thank you, gave the smith his old leathers from the Thieves' Guild. The only part he kept was the steel frog for his war hammer. Once he was done, he returned to Castle Dour to find Captain Valerius.

In the yard, at the entrance to the Castle, Yjarrn found Aquila Valerius talking with Captain Aldis. The two soldiers were talking about the crypts underneath the city, and Yjarrn was eager to hear what had happened.

"Nothing," Captain Aldis replied when Yjarrn asked him what was happening in the catacombs. "Well," Aldis continued. "Nothing at first. We went down into the tomb with Styrr. He was quite distressed when he saw the skeletons you scattered all over the floors, but he quickly forgave you when more started standing up."

"Really?" Yjarrn asked, happy he was not the only one to see them.

"Yeah," Captain Aldis nodded. "They were worthless in a fight. My men just pushed them over, and they fell apart. It was the fact that they're getting up that was worrying. However, the big news was what happened when Styrr started searching out the cause. It was that bloody vampire in the jarl's court that everyone has been too scared to deal with. The moment Styrr pointed the finger at her, she flew into a frenzy, butchered two of my men and nearly killed Falk before Bolgeir took her head. It was a mess. The maids in the Blue Palace are going to have their hands full the rest of the day cleaning up the place."

"Who is Bolgeir?" Yjarrn asked.

"Bolgeir Bearclaw," Aldis replied. "Jarl Elisif's housecarl. I'm glad he was there, or the monster might have killed a lot more before we could stop her."

Yjarrn nodded.

"You did some fine work, scout," Captain Valerius complimented him. "You seem to be taking to your new roll naturally, and I'm glad of it. We are leaving for the front tomorrow to join the final wave of the attack. Get yourself rested. We are going to have to push hard to make sure we don't get left out of the action."

The next morning, Yjarrn was jostled awake before the sun had risen. "Time to go," one of the legionnaire's said, and as a side note, he added, "Well done, by the way, finding out about those bone walkers. I slept good knowing nothing was crawling around down there underneath us."

Yjarrn nodded. He got up, put his armor on and got the rest of his gear together. The legionnaires moved out quickly and headed directly west to the Legion camp in the Pale. Yjarrn did not care much for the camp. It was cold and desolate, and everything was covered with a thin layer of snow. However, it did have a beautiful view overlooking the Sea of Ghosts, and if he walked up onto the surrounding rocks, he could see Dawnstar to the east. Once Captain Valerius was happy with their resupply from the quartermaster, they moved on, following the road south and east to a makeshift town surrounding the Nightgate Inn called Heljarchen. Up until a few months ago, the town did not exist, but when the Legion pushed the Stormcloaks out of the Pale, it sprung up as a headquarters for the Legion in the area as the rest of the army swept through the south. Now it served at the place from which the final push against Ulfric would start, and Yjarrn found himself right in the middle of it, doing his best to stay out of the way.

Delvin Mallory stewed over a bottle of Blackbriar mead at a table by himself in the corner of the Ragged Flagon. The boy whom he had hoped would become his protégé, had abandoned him and the Thieves' Guild, sneaking off during the night. He thought for a time that Yjarrn would return after he had come to his senses, but that time had long passed. Now the time had come to do something about it. Usually, if someone were to betray the Guild to the authorities or try to walk out on them, the Guild would handle it in-house. That is what Brynjolf had meant when he told Delvin to handle the situation, but it is not what the old man had in mind. He did not want to get Yjarrn thrown in prison. He wanted him dead. The Guild had had to deal with too much betrayal recently with Mercer and now with Yjarrn. Delvin decided it was time to make a statement. No one walks out on the Guild, and no one walks out on Delvin Mallory.

On the table in front of him was a folded piece of parchment. It already had his request and the promise of payment laid out to Astrid. He knew that she was not going to be keen on making the contract in this unconventional fashion, but Delvin had already struck a deal with a daedra. That was enough. He was not about to start praying to some desiccated corpse when he could go directly to who he wanted. The payment was substantial, and he was sure the amount would be enough to make an exception, especially for an old friend.

Delvin finished his drink and left the Flagon. In the northern part of Falkreath, in one of the stone walls surrounding the large cemetery, was a dead drop. Delvin had used it many times before in his dealings with the Dark Brotherhood, and he knew Astrid checked it regularly. He left the letter there as well as the promised letter of credit in good faith that the contract would be completed. He stayed at the Dead Man's Drink that night and then headed back to Riften the next morning, with confidence that his issue would soon be nothing but a memory.

Yjarrn made camp up in the mountains above Mixwater Mill. From up on the rocks, he could keep track of troop movements along the road going south out of Windhelm and report back in case Ulfric decided to move his Stormcloaks into the Rift or in case he completely loses his mind and tries to move against Whiterun.

It had already been nearly a week with nothing much to report. A fanatical band of werewolf hunters had taken up residence in a ruin nearby, but they were hardly worth spying on. All they did when they got up in the morning was stalk around their tower like it was worth defending against attack, and once they determined it was safe from all the nobody attacking it, they drank cheap ale until they could not see straight. It was funny at first, but then it just got sad and Yjarrn soon decided they were not worth his time.

Yjarrn's scouting duties kept him moving around the area, though. At least a couple times a day, he would make the journey up passed Mara's Eye Pond to the cliffs overlooking Morvunskar, an old fort housing a large number of Stormcloaks, and spend a few hours detailing everything he could see going on there. Based on where the fort was located, he figured if Ulfric decided to make a move to the south, it would begin at Morvunskar, and so Yjarrn made careful notes of numbers going into and out of the fort, supplies when he could see them, any information the Legion might be able to make use of. Once, he stayed on the rocks all night to see if he might catch anything happening then, but all he could report was that he could hear the ruckus from their partying half the night. They seemed far more interested in drinking than doing any good for Skyrim. Maybe if he paired them up with the werewolf hunters they would drink until they forgot what they were all about, kill a few marauding wolves, and go home. That was all wishful thinking. A Nord with an idea was more stubborn than a hungry dog with a bone. It was a terrible trait that affected most of his kinsmen and overrode their logic and gave them the uncanny inability to see both sides of an issue. In this case, Yjarrn was sure that the war could not end until Ulfric's head was separated from his shoulders.

At the end of the week, Yjarrn gathered up his reports and delivered them to Heljarchen. One of the officers in charge of collecting and interpreting the information collected by the scouts took his reports, paid him, and resupplied him for the next week. After a reasonable night's sleep at the overflowing Nightgate Inn, he spent most of the next day answering questions about his reports until he was finally released to return to his post late in the evening.

As Yjarrn made his way through the forest around Lake Yorgrim, he saw movement in the trees. At first, he thought it was just the wind off the lake, but as he peered through the snow, he thought he saw something. Remembering just how close they were to enemy territory, Yjarrn quickly ducked behind a tree and waited, squinting as he searched for whatever it was he thought he saw, but there was nothing. After a while, Yjarrn decided it must have been his imagination getting the better of him and continued back to his camp. When the trees stopped, Yjarrn hugged the rocks and turned southeast, but as he passed one of the old dwarven lifts, all the hairs on the back of his neck stood up. The scout, who had been developing his sensitivity to danger for his entire life, suddenly had the unmistakable feeling of being watched. He slowly turned his head and looked over his shoulder back toward the trees. There it stood, silent and motionless, just inside the tree line, almost invisible in the night and the shadows of the pines, a single figure shrouded in black. Yjarrn almost missed it, it was so hard to make out, but as he stared, it was impossible to deny. He darted to the edge of the rock for cover and looked back at the figure, but now there was nothing but the shadows and the trees.

Yjarrn spent the rest of the trip back to his campsite keeping to cover and hiding the best he could. The last thing he wanted was to be taken unawares by a Stormcloak scout or be hunted down by a patrol. When he neared Mara's Eye Pond, he doubled back and hid in the rocks near Uttering Hills Cave to make absolutely sure he was no longer being followed before finally feeling free enough to walk back to his post.

It was early morning, just a couple hours before the sun would peek out over the horizon, when Yjarrn trudged wearily to the campsite where he had spent the last week. He was cold and very ready to get a fire started a get a few hours' sleep. He was surprised, however, to see that a small fire had already been lit, even though no one was sitting by it. Yjarrn's senses went into high alert. He backed away, but as he did, he felt a small prick in his lower back between the steel plates Bierand had sewn into his jacket.

"Shhhh," whispered a voice just over his shoulder in a tone that sounded like a gentle breeze, yet chilled him to the bone. "Do not move. This blade has been the final woe of many, and it will indeed be yours. Sooner, should you try to defy it."

Yjarrn froze, terrified. The blade in his lower back had pierced the leather of his jacket as it would the surface of a pond, and even now, he felt a small drop of blood moving down the contours of his spine.

"You have made a friend of mine very upset, Yjarrn," the voice continued. "So upset in fact that I just had to come myself to see who it was that got to the old man. He doesn't usually get this distressed over things like you."

Yjarrn was suddenly aware of another trickle at this point.

"Do you know who I am, Yjarrn?" the voice asked.

With great effort, Yjarrn forced out a few words, "T-the d-d-Dark Brotherhood."

"Yes," the voice said. Yjarrn could hear the woman's lips curl into a smile as she fed off of his fear and dread. "The Dark Brotherhood has come for you Yjarrn. Take a good look at that cozy fire in front of you because it is the last thing you will see before I send you to the Void."

Yjarrn did not handle the threat of imminent death in the most graceful of ways. While most Nords would attempt to go down fighting in a glorious last effort to earn for themselves a place in Sovngarde, Yjarrn's body tensed up so much that he lost control of it. His leg jerked to the side finding the slick, ice-covered surface of a stone which sent it soaring backward over his head, and Yjarrn ended up face down in the snow, nose smashed on the rocks with his legs scorpioned awkwardly over his head. Fortunately for him, this unconventional maneuver also took Astrid by surprise when the heel of his boot broke her grip on her weapon. The blade flew forward into the air, over Yjarrn's head and toward the fire.

Yjarrn rolled over to his back, blowing blood and snot from his broken nose and doing his best to breath, but in the next moment, the bottom of Astrid's boot met his face with a thud. He felt his nose crack again. His eyes teared up and he groaned in pain as the taste of blood filled his mouth.

"You made this a lot more painful than it had to be," Astrid said as she walked over to retrieve her weapon. "I could have made your passing quick, just one thrust, a moment of pain and it would have been over, but now it won't be that easy. Whether it comes by one quick prick to the heart or a thousand slashes, you will not live to see another day. I guarantee it."

Yjarrn rolled to his feet, trying desperately to wipe the blood from his face. he could see her now, a tall, blonde Nord woman dressed in black leathers that looked even less functional than what he had been given by the Thieves' Guild. He guessed that the assassins probably relied on getting the drop on their marks rather than getting into fights with them. However, as this assassin, picked up her blade, she seemed awfully confident as her eyes met his. She held the blade low, circling as she approached, feeling him out for a chance to strike. Yjarrn grabbed his war hammer from his belt and readied himself for a fight. He had never really used his hammer in a fight, except for the skeletons, but they were hardly capable of fighting back. He was not even sure if he was holding it correctly.

Astrid sneered at him and lunged in. Yjarrn attempted to evade, but he was far too slow. The tip of the knife clinked against the steel plate covering the left side of his belly. The assassin smiled, and Yjarrn's already low confidence sunk even lower. She circled back and Yjarrn swung as she got closer, but she gracefully sidestepped his clumsy strike and countered slashing the leather and drawing a bit of blood from behind his right shoulder. This was already going terribly, and Yjarrn was gaining no satisfaction from fighting vainly to the end. He had no chance of winning against this trained murderer, and he found himself wondering if it would have been better, easier if he had not slipped. At least it would have been less painful than being sliced to death by that horrible blade.

Astrid moved like a wolf, shooting in when she sensed weakness and dancing away from Yjarrn's ungainly attacks. He was not getting tired, but his confidence had bottomed out. He was bleeding from several cuts, and Astrid seemed to be delivering on her promised to slice him apart.

Yjarrn, having resigned himself to death, decided to try something different. If it didn't work, the worse that could happen is that he would die sooner. He waited until the assassin was about to strike, and instead of swinging at her with his hammer, he employed a tactic he had used very effectively in the past and brought his foot up hard toward her groin. Admittedly, this strategy worked far better against men, but he did not have any better ideas at the moment. Either way, it did not work. The assassin saw it coming a mile away, danced to the side, caught his foot, and threw it upward as hard as she could. Once again, Yjarrn found himself in midair before landing hard on his back.

Astrid laughed, "Too slow. Why don't you just give up? Let me kill you. I'll do you clean, quick. You'll hardly feel a thing."

Yjarrn sighed. This was hopeless. He looked back at Astrid and nodded.

Her eyebrow rose ever so slightly. "Really?" she asked. "No one has ever taken me up on that offer before. I really only said it to make you lose hope."

"It worked," Yjarrn said, breathing heavily. "I can't beat you."

"True," she mused. "I suppose this does make it easier on both of us. I will keep my promise then. You just lay right there."

Astrid flipped her weapon to an icepick grip and slowly advanced on the helpless legionnaire. Once she came into range, Yjarrn put a second half-baked plan into action kicking her left ankle as hard as he could the moment she put weight on it. The assassin fumbled and fell forward. Yjarrn, expecting the first part of his plan to fail, had not come up with anything to do afterward. He brought his arms in to cover his body and slammed his eyes shut out of instinct. He felt her body fall on top of him, but there was nothing afterward, no sharp pain of a blade penetrating his body, no slash across his throat, nothing. With a great deal of hesitation, Yjarrn opened his eyes to see the eyes of his would-be murderer staring still and unseeing back into his. Written upon Astrid's face was a look of surprise that Yjarrn would never be able to erase from his mind. A dribble of blood escaped from her mouth, and Yjarrn pushed her body off of his. Blood spurted from her chest as she fell limply to the ground, and Yjarrn saw why. He was still holding onto his war hammer, and as he had brought his arms in over his chest, he had turned the backspike up as she came down. The thin black leather had done nothing to stop the spike as it pierced the center of her chest, and she was likely dead before realizing what had happened.

The sun had just peeked above the horizon, dispelling the darkness of night as Yjarrn did his best to take in the whole of the situation while the adrenaline pumping through his body dissipated. Blood was everywhere, covering both him and the dead assassin and coloring the ground around them a shade of crimson he could scarcely describe. The Thieves' Guild was trying to have him killed? He knew that Brynjolf would be irritated by his leaving, but he never expected them to come after him like this. It did not make any sense. He was not that important. Who was it that the assassin had mentioned? Delvin? What the ruddy muck would he care? Then Yjarrn remembered throwing the gems at him. Did he really take it that personal? There were so many questions he had, not the least of which was whether they would send another assassin. Yjarrn knew nearly nothing of the Dark Brotherhood, but he doubted they gave up on a mark in the case of one of their assassins being killed. He needed to hide this! He needed to get away!

There was hardly any snow where Yjarrn had set up camp, which is one of the reasons he had chosen that spot rather than camping further north closer to Morvunskar. He briefly considered throwing her body over the side of the cliff, but that would only get her noticed more quickly and possibly give the owner of Mixwater Mill a heart attack. Yjarrn grabbed Astrid's body by the arms and dragged her over to the rock face where several large stones sat. It took some physical persuasion and a bit of digging, but he managed to loose enough of them to cover her up. He tucked her body next to some of the more stubborn stones and began to pile the rest on top of her.

"What are you doing?!" he heard a voice call out from behind him.

Yjarrn had just about had it with people sneaking up on him. He spun around to see another legion scout sergeant standing behind him gawking.

"Who is that?" the scout asked.

"She said she was part of the Dark Brotherhood," Yjarrn sighed.

"An assassin?!" the scout asked. "And you killed her?! Incredible! Don't want to get on the wrong side of you."

"What are you doing here?" Yjarrn asked.

"I'm your relief," the scout answered. "The siege at Fort Kastav went just as we had hoped, and the Stormcloaks are crumbling. They are moving a number of us east to gather intel on Windhelm before the final assault. I assume that is where they are sending you. They gave me this post because I was up in the middle of it at Kastav. This changes everything, though. We have to get back to Heljarchen now and report this to an officer," he said.

"No!" Yjarrn nearly yelled.

"I wasn't really asking you, scout," the sergeant said.

Yjarrn tried changing tactics. "Would you really want everyone to know you killed an assassin, Sergeant?" he asked the other scout.

The sergeant rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "I suppose not," he said. "Doesn't matter, though. It still has to be reported, just like any other skirmish, and I doubt you are going to be able to come up with a believable excuse for why your armor is covered in blood that doesn't involve a fight."

"Wild animals," Yjarrn retorted.

"Still a fight," the sergeant replied. "Unless you were dead, and they ate you."

"I suppose I would have to report that, too," Yjarrn remarked.

"No," the sergeant said. "But I would when I found your corpse."

"S'wit," Yjarrn muttered.

"What was that?" the sergeant asked.

"Nothing Sergeant," Yjarrn answered. "Just saying goodbye to living."

"There are a few officers I know who are good about keeping things quiet," the sergeant suggested. "We can report it to one of them. Do what we can to keep it as low profile as possible."

"I'd appreciate that," Yjarrn said.

The sergeant nodded. He pulled the hood from Astrid's head, and with one well-aimed sword stroke, cut it from her body.

"What are you doing that for?" Yjarrn asked.

"Proof," the sergeant said as he tucked the head back into the hood that he was now using as a bag. "Plus, one of our people might be able to identify her, find out which assassin you put an end to. That'd be interesting, right? Figure out which one of those murderers you finished?"

"I guess," Yjarrn shrugged. As far as he was concerned, one was as deadly as any other, though it might be good to know just how afraid he should be. If this assassin was someone important, he might have two organizations coming after him soon. "They like killing people. Maybe they won't mind her dying all that much?"

The sergeant laughed, "Doubtful! Not with this weapon. A custom-made ebony blade like this?" he asked, prying the weapon out of Astrid's cold, dead hand and lifting it up for Yjarrn to see. "Wouldn't surprise me if she was in charge of the whole bloody crew."

Yjarrn gulped.

"Come on," the sergeant said. "We'd better get moving. Is your face ok?"

"It's Astrid," Legate Skulnar said. "No doubt."

"Who's Astrid, sir?" Yjarrn asked.

"She is," he began to say. "I mean, she was the leader of the Dark Brotherhood."

"Of course, she was" Yjarrn sighed.

"You did good, scout," Legate Skulnar complimented him. "We've been trying to get rid of this poisoned kiss for some time now but getting a hold of her has been like trying to grab onto a shadow or a shadow of a shadow. Every time you close your hand, nothing was there. How did you stumble onto her?"

"Apparently, our man has a contract out on him," the sergeant said.

"Really?" Legate Skulnar said. "You must have pissed off someone royal."

"Yes, sir," Yjarrn said. His mind was reeling from the fact that he had killed the leader of the Dark Brotherhood, but he was also worried that the legate was going to ask him who had taken out the contract on him. He did not want to lie about his past, but he was also worried about how the Legion would react if they found out he used to be part of the Thieves' Guild. That worry, however, was for not because the legate did not ask. It seemed the sergeant had brought him to the right officer after all.

"Well," the legate shrugged. "There's no way around this. You're going to have to go see Commander Maro."

"Who is Commander Maro, sir?" Yjarrn asked.

"He commands the Emperor's security organization, the Penitus Oculatus," the Legate replied. "Even though we've been assisting, the responsibility of bringing the Dark Brotherhood to justice belongs to him, and he is going to want to hear about this. Sergeant!"

"Sir!" the scout said, popping to attention.

"Get this man an escort to Dragon Bridge," Legate Skulnar ordered. "I want him speaking directly to Commander Maro by tomorrow evening."

"Yes, sir!" the sergeant said, leaving the tent.

Legate Skulnar turned back to Yjarrn. "Impressive, scout," he said. "This is going to make some rather large waves in Skyrim for the better. I, for one, am hoping it might lead to the end of those bloody murderers, and the sooner the better. Good work." The legate smacked Yjarrn roughly on the back and shoved Astrid's severed head into his hands. "Don't forget to give him this," the legate laughed. "He'll probably want to hang it outside his office."

"Great," Yjarrn muttered, and followed off after the sergeant, holding the head as far from himself as possible.

The head did not fare well during the trip across Skyrim. At the crossroads near Silverdrift Lair, Yjarrn slipped on the icy stones and simultaneously lost his grip on the bag in which he had stored the assassin's head. It tumbled down the stones in the wrong direction so fast Yjarrn may never have found it if not for the fallen tree it collided with before getting stuck in the surrounding snow. At first, Yjarrn meant to examine his proof to see if it had sustained any damage, but as he picked up the bag, decided it might be better not to. The weight distribution felt a bit different in his hands and there was one or two more red spots seeping through the canvas.

As the small contingent of legionnaires neared their destination, it did not go any better for the head. Yjarrn knocked it into the side of the boat and dropped it into the cold waters of the Sea of Ghosts as he was boarding the ferry from Dawnstar to Solitude, and it spent the entire trip wedged between his feet, sitting in the water that pooled in the bottom of the hull. It likely endured most of the punishment at Yjarrn's hands on the way up from the docks as he accidentally swung the bag into multiple wooden posts.

During the entire trip, city guards and legionnaires asked to get a look at the head of the infamous assassin, but the looks of admiration he received in Heljarchen had changed to looks of disgust by the time they reached Solitude and Dragon Bridge. When Commander Maro asked to see the contents of Yjarrn's bag, he hesitantly handed it over with a meek apology.

Maro looked in the bag, and after the veteran soldier composed himself, he handled it to one of his aides with orders to dispose of it somewhere far away.

"So," Maro said. "That used to be Astrid? And this is no jest?"

"Yes, sir," Yjarrn replied. "Legate Skulnar identified her."

"He would know," Maro nodded. The commander began to pace around the house that was currently serving as the headquarters of the Penitus Oculatus. "Long have I watched the Dark Brotherhood's movements," he said. "Far too long have I been forced to wait for the right time to strike out at them, but I truly believe the time has come. One of my agents only recently acquired the passphrase to their Sanctuary at the cost of her own life, and I am glad to see that her sacrifice will not be in vain. With it and the confusion bound to have been caused by Astrid's demise, we can finish the Dark Brotherhood in Skyrim forever! You, my friend, have heralded their end! You managed to kill Astrid. I think the honor should be yours."

At this last statement, Yjarrn was snapped out of his own thoughts. "What? Why? What honor?" he asked. "What are you talking about?"

"The honor of opening that dark door, storming down into that pit of vipers and slaughtering every last one of them!" Maro exclaimed.

The color drained from Yjarrn's face, and his mouth went as dry as the A'likr. "Excuse me," he breathed.

"What is it?" Commander Maro asked, smiling.

Yjarrn's mouth was moving, but no words were coming out.

"What is it, scout?" Maro asked again. "Speak up!"

"Y-you don't underst-tand, sir," Yjarrn stuttered, forcing the unwilling words from between his lips. "I am no fighter! Killing that as-assassin was an accident! I cannot do that!"

Commander Maro looked at Yjarrn with a puzzled expression on his face. "Are you saying that you want to refuse this high honor I am offering to you?" he asked.

Yjarrn looked over at the other Penitus Oculatus agent in the house, but after getting no help from him, turned back to Maro saying, "Well, yes! I have no desire to enter that Sanctuary."

"And why not?" Maro asked.

"Because the moment I walk in there, I will die, horribly," Yjarrn said. "The moment one of those depraved lunatics sees me it will just be over. It won't be like, 'Hey, who are you?' It will be stab, stab, dead! They'll be laughing while I re-dye their carpets a rather personal shade of red! Skyrim is a hard enough place to avoid being eviscerated without walking into a dark hole full of people so comfortable with murder that they have taken it on as a profession!"

Unfortunately for Yjarrn, Commander Maro was not the kind of officer who accepted refusal well. He glared at the scout, who suddenly realized he had been yelling at an officer, and quickly found the back wall the most interesting place in all of Tamriel.

"Maybe I was not clear, legionnaire," Maro growled as he moved closer. "I am ordering you to sneak into that Sanctuary and put an end to the Dark Brotherhood."

This is when the other agent spoke up. "I'm afraid you cannot order him to do anything, sir," he said. Both Commander Maro and Yjarrn turned and stared at the agent who was busy writing out something on a piece of parchment.

"What did you say, Cornelius?" Maro snarled.

The agent put down his quill and looked over at his commander. "While you certainly outrank this scout, he is not in your chain of command, sir," Cornelius said. "He is a legionnaire, not a Penitus Oculatus agent, and therefore you have no direct authority over him. If you want to order him to his death, as you seem so intent on doing, you will need to contact his superior and have him order the man into that Sanctuary, which is a request I can write up real quick if you like."

Infuriated, Commander Maro's eyes bulged. He attempted to refute what Cornelius had so calmly explained, but his attempt ended in smoldering silence. He turned back to Yjarrn, his lips curled in ardent fury.

"Good luck with those assassins, Commander," Yjarrn said cheerfully. He turned and made for the door as quickly as he could. As he opened it, he called over his shoulder, "Have a good day, Cornelius!"

The agent did not bother to look up again from his parchment but waved as Yjarrn closed the door behind him.

The legionnaires who had accompanied Yjarrn were sitting comfortably at a table in the Four Shields, and they were not keen on leaving just yet. However, when Yjarrn explained that if they did not leave right now, Commander Maro was likely to find a way to order them into the Dark Brotherhood Sanctuary, the men were out the door, tankards of undrunk mead still sitting on the table. They headed south over the Dragon Bridge throwing worried glances back over their shoulders until the town was out of sight.

The legionnaires followed the road south and then east, obviously far more interested in fighting Stormcloaks than a shadowy band of cutthroats. Yjarrn was glad of it. It had been the only arrow in his quiver to get them to leave, and while he wished he had not lied, he was glad to have been able to slip out of the commander's clutches, with a little help from his aide.

It was near the Weylon Stones that everything went to Oblivion. As the legionnaires passed, arrows were loosed from behind a couple of large rocks just south of the road. The first found its mark, piercing one of the soldier's throats. Blood spurted from his mouth as he fell to the ground, grasping at the wound. Another arrow flew wide, and the last bounced harmlessly off the steel cuirass of the legionnaire next to Yjarrn. Reacting instantly to the threat the legionnaires formed up and raised their shields in preparation for a second volley, but none came. Instead, three figures in black leather stepped out from behind the rocks.

"It's the Brotherhood!" one of the soldiers whispered. "They're here for Yjarrn!"

"Be ready!" Corporal Savros ordered. "They won't get any more of us without a fight!"

"We only want Yjarrn," one of the leather-clad assailants called out. "Hand him over, and the rest of you can be on your merry way."

Yjarrn knew that voice! It may have been obscured by the dark hood, but there was no mistaking the unique inflections of Delvin Mallory. What was he wearing, skin-tight layers of molded, black leather? Yjarrn had never seen anyone wearing that clothing in the Flagon, and was that a bird on his chest?

"Not a chance!" Savros yelled.

"Come now, be reasonable," Delvin said. "How valuable has he really been to you?"

"Valuable enough!" the corporal retorted. "But it doesn't matter. The legion does not hand over its people to cutthroats on the threat of violence!"

"I think you forgot, your friend there, lad," one of the other attackers reminded him, pointing to the corpse of their comrade lying still on the cobblestones. "The threat is very real."

"I would prefer not to have to kill another one of you without need," the last one said. She was smaller than the other two, but like the others, her face was hidden behind a closed hood. In her hand, she held another arrow, nocked and ready on the string of an enchanted bow.

Yjarrn was shocked to hear two more voices he recognized from the Guild. Obviously, they had decided to handle their business personally this time, but he still had no idea what he had done to prompt this kind of reaction. He decided to try to smooth things over. "Hey, guys! You know, I'm really sorry about walking out on you."

"You know the Dark Brotherhood?" one of the soldiers asked Yjarrn.

"They aren't the Dark Brotherhood," Yjarrn said.

"Then who are they?" he asked.

"Shut it," Corporal Savros ordered. "Yjarrn, talk to them!"

Yjarrn continued, "Well, I learned my lesson. It was a really bad idea. I won't do it again. Is there any way you think we could just forget this whole thing and let bygones be bygones?"

"Not bloody likely," Delvin growled as the three shadowy figures circled around to the road.

"I'm sorry, lad," Brynjolf called back. "You crossed a line. You're going to have to pay."

"How much?" Yjarrn asked.

"It's not a matter of coin, Yjarrn," Karliah said. "You know things that we do not allow others to know. You could very easily bring us down if you talk. One of our own almost brought us down before. We cannot let it happen again."

"Bloody hell," Delvin muttered, dropping his bow and drawing a dark blade swirling with enchantments. "Just kill 'em!"

In that confusing turn of events that Yjarrn found himself, hiding behind the shields of his comrades-in-arms, who were willing to lose their lives to defend his from the weapons of the people he once called family, Yjarrn made the first completely selfless decision of his life. It was not completely thought through nor was it logical. In fact, it was probably the stupidest thing he could possibly have done, but in the tension of that hopeless moment, it seemed like the only thing he could do.

"I am not going to let anyone else die for me," Yjarrn whispered.

"What?! What are you talking about?" Savros asked, but all he heard were footfalls fading into the distance as Yjarrn tore off to the south into the woods. The corporal turned back to the shadowy assailants, ready for a fight that never came.

"Run him down," Karliah ordered the other two.

Delvin groaned, "Why did he have to run? I'm too old for this."

Corporal Savros and the other legionnaires tried in vain to distract their attackers in order to give Yjarrn a better chance to escape, but Nightingales were gone like a vapor in the wind.

Yjarrn tore through the woods, ducking between trees, skirting passed rocks, and doing his very best to keep his feet on the snowy terrain. At first, he tried to get around the Nightingales, but they were far too quick, cutting off the route back to Heljarchen and pursuing him with tireless haste. Yjarrn kept running east, hoping that he might be able to outrun and get around his former guildmates and make for the safety of Heljarchen, but if not, he knew the terrain in that direction far better than the terrain to the south. Yjarrn could feel his strength fading, but he had run like this before. He had been running for his entire life, and he had far more in reserve than most people. He let his fear fuel him. He thought about the horrible things the Thieves' Guild leaders would do to him if they caught him, and his legs began to pump harder through the powdery snow. At several points, Yjarrn thought he might have lost his pursuers, but each time he would glance back over his shoulder, he would see flashes of black against the bright white snow, shadows in the pale, relentlessly dogging his steps.

As the trees broke away on the south shore of Lake Yorgrim, only steps from where he had first seen Astrid, Yjarrn turned. He ripped his war hammer from the steel ring on his belt, and as the Nightingales came into view, he hurled it at them with all his might. It was something they had not expected. Delvin swore loudly which was immediately followed by a loud grunt as the weapon impacted, and Yjarrn laughed to himself as he continued fleeing to the sound of irate swearing in Delvin's distinct vernacular.

With one of his pursuers down, Yjarrn made his move. Running down toward the bank of the river, he rushed it, high-stepping his way across the shallows and back up onto the opposite shore with the intent of doubling back toward the safety of Heljarchen. His comrades-in-arms had certainly made it there by now and had hopefully alerted the camp to what was happening. Even the likes of Delvin, Brynjolf, and Karliah stood no chance against legionnaires marching en masse. Yjarrn smiled. He had this. There was no way they could get back around the lake in time to stop him from making it back to the Legion camp. He turned north and hustled up the bank, but as he crested the hill at the side of the road, he saw a figure out of the corner of his eye just before she drew back on and released her bowstring.

Yjarrn cried out and fell to the ground as the arrow struck his upper torso. On his back, in the snow, Yjarrn checked the place where the arrow had hit him, but there was no blood, no sharp pain, no wound. Just the chain mail that Bierand had attached to the upper portion of his jacket.

"Oh, thank goodness!" Yjarrn breathed and jumped up to his feet.

Karliah, taken by surprise at her quarry's sudden revival, missed her chance to loose another arrow and was forced to renew the chase as Yjarrn ran further east. Brynjolf had now crossed the river and was closing in on Yjarrn's right. Spurred on by images in his mind of the burly thief pounding on his face, Yjarrn ran faster than he ever thought he could, slipping and sliding down the steep incline to Anga's Mill, and calling for help the entire time. The mill was abandoned, but the lack of people did not stop him from screeching like a banshee until crossed the stone bridge at the east end of the mill. It was on that bridge the Yjarrn finally saw a small ray of hope in the glint of sunlight reflecting off of legion steel.

The Legion had started its final assault on Windhelm, and masses of legionnaires were marching across the stone bridge up to the City of Ysgramor. At this point, whether it was the cold or the exhaustion, Yjarrn could no longer feel his legs, which he counted as a blessing, taking off along the southern bank of the Yorgrim River toward the marching sea of steel. As he crossed over another stone bridge to the east bank and up to join the Legion's ranks, he turned back to see the Nightingales, stopped on the other side of the south-flowing tributary. One of them, which he assumed must be Delvin, dragged his thumb across his throat and pointed at Yjarrn. Yjarrn swallowed hard and then disappeared into the ranks of the Legion as they marched into Windhelm.

Yjarrn had no idea what he was supposed to be doing as he wormed his way into the only open space he found to stand. Even though he had fought for his life more times than he had hoped to ever have to, as a scout, he had never been in a battle, which he imagined would be much different. It was something he was completely certain he was not cut out for, especially unarmed, and now it seemed like Delvin's threat was going to come true without the angry old man having to do the deed himself. The legionnaires in front of Yjarrn stopped, and he found himself uncomfortably close to some men who had been on the road a while. Then, it happened, the long, drawn-out, unmistakable sound of flatulence which someone in the crowd was trying desperately to hold in. Yjarrn nearly laughed, but then the smell came, and Legion discipline was put to the test. Angry comments and threats were muttered, and several soldiers at the edges of the columns turned their heads for a bit of fresh air. Yjarrn was not that lucky, and he was forced to endure the rancid odor until it finally dissipated. As he waited, doing his best to breathe through his mouth, he heard General Tullius shouting from somewhere near the front.

"All right!" the general yelled. "It's time to deliver the final blow to the Stormcloak rebellion! You have all fought bravely and sacrificed much to bring us to this point!"

Yjarrn shrugged. He had fought. It may not have been bravely, or even willingly, but he had fought. That was something. At that thought, Yjarrn's chest puffed out just a bit more than it had before. He was part of something bigger than himself, and that felt pretty good.

"Ready now!" General Tullius cried out.

Wait, what? Yjarrn thought. Was this it? Already? Yjarrn tried to worm his way backward. The good troops, the ones who train for this stuff would want to be the first ones in. He did not want to be too prideful and take their moment from them. After all, that was what they were there for, right?

"What the ruddy muck do you think you're doing, soldier?!" a voice from behind Yjarrn yelled. "What kind of psychopath marches into a battle without a bloody weapon?" Yjarrn found himself spun around to face an officer who subsequently shoved a bow and a quiver of arrows into his hands. "Make sure you cover us once we get in there, alright scout? If you run out of arrows, then you can go after 'em with your fists, alright?"

Yjarrn nodded stupidly, and suddenly the column surged forward as the Legion cracked open the gates and stormed into the city. The streets of Windhelm were pure chaos. Yjarrn, having never used a bow in his life, smacked the first Stormcloak he saw in the back of the head with it. Unfortunately, it hardly did anything more than get the rebel's attention, and the vibration from the impact with his helmet forced Yjarrn to drop the bow. Fortunately, another legionnaire stabbed that Stormcloak in the back before he could hack Yjarrn to pieces, and Yjarrn grabbed the dead man's ax and shield. Had he had a moment to collect himself, Yjarrn might have figured out how to be of some use, but the best the scout managed to do was keep from being killed by his ferocious countrymen desperate to keep their cause alive.

Somewhere in the city's central plaza around Candlehearth Hall, Yjarrn found himself squaring off with a big, beefy Stormcloak swinging around a giant mace that looked far too big for any one man to be wielding it with a single hand. He swung the weapon around like scythe, destroying anything in its path. He had taken out a couple of legionnaires already, but his eyes now focused in on Yjarrn, who looked vainly in every direction for a place to run. The large man laughed as he closed in on his much smaller prey. He swung his mace at Yjarrn's head. The scout instinctively cried out and ducked out of the way. The second swing came, and Yjarrn threw up his shield. The massive blow cracked the wooden planks, and Yjarrn felt the bone in his arm snap under the impact. He yelped in pain, but that pain morphed into anger. Filled with a momentary rage, Yjarrn struck back, completely missing with the blade of the ax but catching the big Nord on the inside of his thigh with the bladed thrusting tip. His eyes bulged as he fell to his knees. The steel bit deep into his flesh, and he grabbed at the wound, which had instantly started pouring blood. Yjarrn watched in stunned disbelief as the man's eye rolled back in his head and the colossal Nord fell face first onto the stones.

Yjarrn looked at his ax and then back at the man he had just killed. What in Tamriel had just happened? he thought. He had won?! As the adrenaline of the fight wore off, he suddenly remembered the throbbing pain in his left arm. He turned, felt a thud against the side of his helmet, and everything went dark.

"I never for the life of me thought I would see you again," Captain Valerius said.

Yjarrn only half heard the words as his vision was starting to clear. "Who? What is going on?" he asked.

"Somehow you managed to survive the Battle of Windhelm," Aquila said. "Though I'm not sure why you're here at all. They don't send scouts into battles. Skirmishes maybe, but not full engagements."

Yjarrn was still not sure where he was, but he knew who he was. That, at least, was something. "Where am I?" Yjarrn asked.

"In one of the field hospital tents we got set up in the Stone Quarter of the city," Valerius answered.

Yjarrn did not know where the Stone Quarter was.

"Your skull got thumped pretty good," the captain continued. "Your helmet's cracked, but it saved your life. Don't worry, though. I got you a new one from the quartermaster."

"Does that mean we took the city?" Yjarrn asked.

"We did," Captian Valerius smiled. "An Imperial banner now flies over Windhelm, and Ulfric Stormcloak is dead. The way I heard it, Legate Rikke finished the bastard herself, drove her sword right through his traitorous heart."

Yjarrn tried to sit up, but Aquila gently stopped him.

"You need to keep still for a while yet, Yjarrn," the captain said. "The healers took care of your arm, but your head is still going to take some time to clear up."

Yjarrn relented and laid back down. "The war?" he asked.

"I suspect this was the death nail," Valerius said. "Jarl Korir has not officially surrendered yet, but I suspect that it's only a matter of time, maybe within the week. He might put on a good show of holding out, but he really doesn't have much of an option. With no allies and no food and with the mages refusing to take sides, all Tullius has to do is cut any supply lines the jarl has with Solstheim or Morrowind and wait for the stores to dry up."

"It's over then," Yjarrn said, smiling.

"It is indeed," Captain Valerius said. "In more ways than one. My men and I have orders to return to Cyrodiil. We leave for the Imperial City as soon as possible."

Yjarrn sat straight up in bed. "You're leaving Skyrim?" he asked.

"Of course," Captain Valerius shrugged. "There are plenty of legion troops here to keep order. We were only stationed here to help quell the rebellion. Now that it's done, we get to go home."

Yjarrn's mind was racing. "Captain?" Yjarrn asked. "Do you think it would be possible for me to come along?"

"Actually, Yjarrn," the captain said. "You don't really have any choice. That's why we're not already on our way to Cyrodiil. Legate Rikke assigned you to my company, and the paperwork in Heljarchen is a mess. As far as anyone can tell, you're still assigned to me, which means you're coming with us. I suppose by that look on your face it means you do not object?"

"Not at all, sir," Yjarrn smiled.

"Good," Aquila said, slapping Yjarrn on the leg. "Then we leave as soon as you're fit to travel." The captain stood up and made his way out of the tent.

Yjarrn laid back on the soft pillow and breathed out a long sigh of relief. The Thieves' Guild might have had the run of things in Skyrim for the last year, but now that the Empire was back in control of things, the Guild would not have the confusion of a civil war for cover. It was going to get harder for them, and that made Yjarrn smile. Maybe one day, Riften might manage to put an end to their nefarious dealings, but all Yjarrn knew was until that day, if it ever came, he would be far from Riften, far from Skyrim, and far from their reach.

It was a cold, clear day when Yjarrn followed Captain Valerius along the well-trodden road through the Jerall Mountains. Gentle gusts of wind swirled lightly around the horses' legs, drawing lines of powdery snow across their path. It was at Pale Pass, as Captain Valerius showed the orders to the gate captain, that Yjarrn turned around and took his last look at Skyrim, the land of his birth. It had been a rough haul at times. He had made some mistakes, but ultimately, he had found a place and a path. Where it would lead, he did not know, but he was off to find out.


End file.
